WINDOW  IN 
THRUMS 


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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Gyda  Sharpe 


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J.    M.     15AKRIE. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTBR  PAGE 

I,  The  House  on  the  Brae,       .        .        .  i 

II.  On  the  Track  of  the  Minister,       .  ii 

III.  Preparing  to  Receive  Company,            .  19 

IV.  Waiting  for  the  Doctor,          .        .  27 

V.  A  Humorist  on  His  Calling,        .        .  37 

VI.  Dead  this  Twenty  Years,         .        .  48 

VII.  The  Statement  of  Tibbie  Birse,           .  60 

VIII.  A  Cloak  with  Beads,         ...  69 

IX.  The  Power  of  Beauty,  .        .        .81 

X.  A  Magnum  Opus,         ....  89 

XI.  The  Ghost  Cradle,        ....  97 

XII.  The  Tragedy  of  a  Wife,            .        .  107 

XIII.  Making  THE  Best  OF  It,          .        .        .  116 

XIV.  Visitors  at  the  Manse,      .        .        .  125 
XV.  How    Gavin    Birse    Put    it    to    Mag 

Lownie, 134 

XVI.     The  Son  from  London,      .        .        .  145 

XVII.  A  Home  for  Geniuses,            ,        .        .  161 


535346 


IV  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER 

XVIII.  Leeby  and  Jamie, 

XIX.  A  Tale  of  a  Glove,    . 

XX.  The  Last  Night, 

XXI.  Jess  Left  Alone, 

XXII.  Jamie's  Home  Coming. 


page 
i68 
i8o 
191 
201 
210 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  BRAE. 

On  the  bump  of  green  round  which  the 
brae  twists,  at  the  top  of  the  brae,  and 
within  cry  of  T'nowhead  Farm,  still  stands 
a  one-story  house,  whose  whitewashed 
walls,  streaked  with  the  discoloration  that 
rain  leaves,  look  yellow  when  the  snow 
comes.  In  the  old  days  the  stiff  ascent  left 
Thrums  behind,  and  where  is  now  the  mak- 
ing of  a  suburb  was  only  a  poor  row  of 
dwellings  and  a  manse,  with  Hendry's  cot 
to  watch  the  brae.  The  house  stood  bare, 
without  a  shrub,  in  a  garden  whose  paUng 


2  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

did  not  go  all  the  way  round,  the  potato 
pit  being  only  kept  out  of  the  road,  that 
here  sets  off  southward,  by  a  broken  dyke 
of  stones  and  earth.  On  each  side  of  the 
slate-colored  door  was  a  window  of  knot- 
ted glass.  Ropes  were  flung  over  the 
thatch  to  keep  the  roof  on  in  wind. 

Into  this  humble  abode  I  would  take 
anyone  who  cares  to  accompany  me.  But 
you  must  not  come  in  a  contemptuous 
mood,  thinking  that  the  poor  are  but  a 
stage  removed  from  beasts  of  burden,  as 
some  cruel  writers  of  these  days  say;  nor 
will  I  have  you  turn  over  with  your  foot  the 
shabby  horse-hair  chairs  that  Leeby  kept 
so  speckless,  and  Hendry  weaved  for  years 
to  buy,  and  Jess  so  loved  to  look  upon. 

I  speak  of  the  chairs,  but  if  we  go  to- 
gether into  the  "  room  "  they  will  not  be 
visible  to  you.  For  a  long  time  the  house 
has  been  to  let.  Here,  on  the  left  of  the 
doorway,  as  we  enter,  is  the  room,  without 
a  shred  oi  furniture  in  it  except  the  boards 
of  two  closed-in  beds.  The  flooring  is  not 
steady,  and  here  and  there  holes  have  been 
eaten  into  planks.     You  can  scarcely  stand 


THE    HOUSE    ON    THE    BRAE.  3 

Upright     beneath     the    decaying    ceihng. 
Worn  boards  and  ragged  walls,  and  the 
rusty  ribs  fallen  from  the  fireplace,  are  all 
that  meet  your  eyes,  but  I  see  a  round,  un- 
steady, waxcloth-covered  table,  with  four 
books  lying  at  equal  distance  on  it.     There 
are  six  prim  chairs,  two  of  them  not  to  be 
sat  upon,  backed  against  the  walls,  and  be- 
tween the  window  and  the  fire  place  a  chest 
of  drawers,  with  a  snowy  coverlet.     On  the 
drawers  stands  a  board  with  colored  mar- 
bles for  the  game  of  solitaire,  and  I  have 
only  to  open  the  drawer  with  the  loose 
handle  to  bring  out  the  dambrod.     In  the 
carved  wood  frame  over  the  window  hangs 
Jamie's  portrait;  in  the  only  other  frame  a 
picture  of  Daniel  in  the  den  of  lions,  sewn 
by   Leeby   in   wool.     Over   the   chimney- 
piece  with  its  shells,  in  which  the  roar  of 
the  sea  can  be  heard,  are  strung  three  rows 
of  birds'  eggs.     Once  again  we  might  be 
expecting  company  to  tea. 

The  passage  is  narrow.  There  is  a 
square  hole  between  the  rafters,  and  a  lad- 
der leading  up  to  it.  You  may  climb  and 
look  into  the  attic,  as  Jess  liked  to  hear  me 


4  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

call  my  tiny  garret  room.  I  am  stiffer 
now  than  in  the  days  when  I  lodged  with 
Jess  during  the  summer  holiday  I  am  try- 
ing to  bring  back,  and  there  is  no  need  for 
me  to  ascend.  Do  not  laugh  at  the  news- 
papers with  which  Leeby  papered  the  gar- 
ret, nor  at  the  yarn  Hendry  stuffed  into 
the  windy  holes.  He  did  it  to  warm  the 
house  for  Jess.  But  the  paper  must  have 
gone  to  pieces  and  the  yarn  rotted  decades 
-ago. 

I  have  kept  the  kitchen  for  the  last,  as 
Jamie  did  on  the  dire  day  ol  which  I  shall 
have  to  tell.  It  has  a  flooring  of  stone, 
now,  where  there  used  only  to  be  hard 
earth,  and  a  broken  pane  in  the  window  is 
indifferently  stuffed  with  rags.  But  it  is 
the  other  window  I  turn  to,  with  a  pain  at 
my  heart,  and  pride  and  fondness,  too,  the 
square  foot  of  glass  where  Jess  sat  in  her 
chair  and  looked  down  the  brae. 

Ah,  that  brae!  The  history  of  tragic  lit- 
tle Thrums  is  sunk  into  it  like  the  stones 
it  swallows  in  the  winter.  We  have  all 
found  the  brae  long  and  steep  in  the  spring 
of  life.     Do  you  remember  how  the  child 


THE    HOUSE    ON    THE    BRAE.  5 

you  once  were  sat  at  the  foot  of  it  and 
wondered  if  a  new  world  began  at  the  top? 
It  climbs  from  a  shallow  burn,  and  we  used 
to  sit  on  the  brig  a  long  time  before  ven- 
turing to  climb.  As  boys  we  ran  up  the 
brae.  As  men  and  women,  young  and  in 
our  prime,  we  almost  forgot  that  it  was 
there.  But  the  autumn  of  life  comes,  and 
the  brae  grows  steeper;  then  the  winter, 
and  once  again  we  are,  as  the  child,  paus- 
ing aprehensively  on  the  brig.  Yet  are  we 
no  longer  the  child;  we  look  now  for  no 
new  world  at  the  top,  only  for  a  little  gar- 
den and  a  tiny  house,  and  a  hand  loom  in 
the  house.  It  is  only  a  garden  of  kail  and 
potatoes,  but  there  may  be  a  line  of  daisies, 
white  and  red,  on  each  side  of  the  narrow 
footpath,  and  honeysuckle  over  the  door. 
Life  is  not  always  hard,  even  after  backs 
grow  bent,  and  we  know  that  all  braes  lead 
only  to  the  grave. 

This  is  Jess's  window.  For  more  than 
twenty  years  she  had  not  been  able  to  go 
so  far  as  the  door,  and  only  once  while  I 
knew  her  was  she  ben  in  the  room.  With 
her  husband,  Hendry,  or  their  only  daugh- 


6  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

ter,  Leeby,  to  lean  upon,  and  her  hand 
clutching  her  staff,  she  took  twice  a  day, 
when  she  was  strong,  the  journey  between 
her  bed  and  the  window  where  stood  her 
chair.  She  did  not  lie  there  looking  at  the 
sparrows  or  at  Leeby  redding  up  the 
house,  and  I  hardly  ever  heard  her  com- 
plain. All  the  sewing  was  done  by  her; 
she  often  baked  on  a  table  pushed  close  to 
the  window,  and,  by  leaning  forward,  she 
could  stir  the  porridge.  Leeby  was  sel- 
dom off  her  feet,  but  I  do  not  know  that 
she  did  more  than  Jess,  who  liked  to  tell 
me,  when  she  had  a  moment  to  spare,  that 
she  had  a  terrible  lot  to  be  thankful  for. 

To  those  who  dwell  in  great  cities 
Thrums  is  only  a  small  place,  but  what  a 
clatter  of  life  it  has  for  me  when  I  come 
to  it  from  my  schoolhouse  in  the  glen. 
Had  my  lot  been  cast  in  a  town  I  would,  no 
doubt,  have  sought  country  parts  during 
my  September  holiday,  but  the  school- 
house  is  quiet  even  when  the  summer  takes 
brakes  full  of  sportsmen  and  others  past 
the  top  of  my  footpath,  and  I  was  always 
light-hearted    when    Craijriebuckle's    cart 


THE    HOUSE    ON    THE    BRAE,  7 

bore  me  into  the  din  of  Thrums.  I  only 
once  stayed  during  the  whole  of  my  holi- 
day at  the  house  on  the  brae,  but  I  knew 
its  inmates  for  many  years,  including 
Jamie,  the  son,  who  was  a  barber  in  Lon- 
don. Of  their  ancestry  I  never  heard. 
With  us  it  was  only  some  of  the  articles  of 
furniture,  or  perhaps  a  snuff-mull,  that  had 
a  srenealosfical  tree.  In  the  house  on  the 
brae  was  a  great  kettle,  called  the  boiler, 
that  was  said  to  be  fifty  years  old  in  the 
days  of  Hendry's  grandfather,  of  whom 
nothing  more  is  known.  Jess's  chair, 
which  had  carved  arms  and  a  seat  stuffed 
with  rags,  had  been  Snecky  Hobart's 
father's  before  it  was  hers,  and  old  Snecky 
bought  it  at  a  roup  in  the  Tenements. 
Jess's  rarest  possession  was,  perhaps,  the 
christening  robe  that  even  people  at  a  dis- 
tance came  to  borrow.  Her  mother  could 
count  up  a  hundred  persons  who  had  been 
baptized  in  it. 

Every  one  of  the  hundred,  I  believe,  is 
dead,  and  even  I  cannot  now  pick  out  Jess 
and  Hendry's  grave;  but  I  heard  recently 
that  the  christening  robe  is  still  in  use.     It 


8  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

is  strange  that  I  should  still  be  left,  after 
so  many  changes,  one  of  the  three  or  four 
who  can  to-day  stand  on  the  brae  and  point 
out  Jess's  window.  The  Httle  window 
commands  the  incline  to  the  point  where 
the  brae  suddenly  jerks  out  of  sight  in  its 
climb  down  into  the  town.  The  steep  path 
up  the  commonty  makes  for  this  elbow 
of  the  brae,  and  thus  whichever  way  the 
traveler  takes,  it  is  here  that  he  comes  first 
into  sight  of  th?  window.  Here,  too, 
those  who  go  to  the  town  from  the  south 
get  their  first  glimpse  of  Thrums. 

Carts  pass  up  and  down  the  brae  every 
few  minutes,  and  there  comes  an  occasional 
gig.  Seldom  is  the  brae  empty,  for  many 
live  beyond  the  top  of  it  now,  and  men  and 
women  go  by  to  their  work,  children  to 
school  or  play.  Not  one  of  the  children 
I  see  from  the  window  to-day  is  known  to 
me,  and  most  of  the  men  and  women  I 
only  recognize  by  their  likeness  to  their 
parents.  That  sweet-faced  old  woman 
with  the  shawl  on  her  shoulders  may  be 
one  of  the  girls  who  was  playing  at  the 
game  of  palaulays  when  Jamie  stole  into 


THE    HOUSE    ON    THE    BRAE.  9 

Thrums  for  the  last  time;  the  man  who  is 
leaning  on  the  commonty  gate  gathering 
breath  for  the  last  quarter  of  the  brae  may, 
as  a  barefooted  callant,  have  been  one  of 
those  who  chased  Cree  Oueery  past  the 
poorhouse.  I  cannot  say;  but  this  I  know, 
that  the  grandparents  of  most  of  these  boys 
and  girls  were  once  young  with  me.  If  I 
see  the  sons  and  daughters  of  my  friends 
grown  old,  I  also  see  the  grandchildren 
spinning  the  peerie  and  hunkering  at 
I-dree-I-dree — I-droppit-it — as  we  did  so 
long  ago.  The  world  remains  as  young  as 
€ver.  The  lovers  that  met  on  the  com- 
monty in  the  gloaming  are  gone,  but 
there  are  other  lovers  to  take  their  place, 
and  still  the  commonty  is  here.  The  sun 
had  sunk  on  a  fine  day  in  June,  early  in  the 
century,  when  Hendry  and  Jess,  newly 
married,  he  in  a  rich  moleskin  waistcoat, 
she  in  a  white  net  cap,  walked  to  the  house 
on  the  brae  that  was  to  be  their  home.  So 
Jess  has  told  me.  Here  again  has  been 
just  such  a  day,  and  somewhere  in  Thrums 
there  may  be  just  such  a  couple,  setting 
out  for  their  home  behind  a  horse  with 


lO  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

white  ears  instead  of  walking,  but  with  the 
same  hopes  and  fears,  and  the  same  love 
light  in  their  eyes.  The  world  does  not 
age.  The  hearse  passes  over  the  brae  and 
up  the  straight  burying-ground  road,  but 
still  there  is  a  cry  for  the  christening  robe. 
Jess's  window  was  a  beacon  by  night  to 
travelers  in  the  dark,  and  it  will  be  so  in  the 
future  when  there  are  none  to  remember 
Jess.  There  are  many  such  windows  still, 
with  loving  faces  behind  them.  From 
them  we  watch  for  the  friends  and  rela- 
tives w'ho  are  coming  back,  and  some^ 
alas!  watch  in  vain.  Not  ever}'one  re- 
turns who  takes  the  elbow  of  the  brae 
bravely,  or  waves  his  handkerchief  to  those 
who  watch  from  the  window  with  wet  eyes,, 
and  some  return  too  late.  To  Jess,  at  her 
window  always  when  she  was  not  in  bed, 
things  happy  and  mournful  and  terrible 
came  intO'  view^  At  this  window  she  sat 
for  twenty  years  or  more  looking  at  the 
world  as  through  a  telescope;  and  here  an. 
awful  ordeal  was  gone  through  after  her 
sweet  untarnished  soul  had  been  given  back- 
to  God. 


ON    THE    TRACK    OF    THE    MINISTER.  II 

CHAPTER  11. 

ON  THE  TRACK  OF  THE  MINISTER. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  Saturday  that 
carted  me  and  my  two  boxes  to  Thrums,  I 
was  ben  in  the  room  playing  Hendr}^  at  the 
dambrod.  I  had  one  of  the  room  chairs, 
but  Leeby  brought  a  chair  from  the  kit- 
chen for  her  father.  Our  door  stood  open, 
and,  as  Hendry  often  pondered  for  two 
minutes  with  his  hand  on  a  "  man,"  I  could 
have  joined  in  the  gossip  that  was  going  on 
but  the  house. 

"  Ay,  weel,  then,  Leeby,"  said  Jess,  sud- 
denly, "  I'll  warrant  the  minister  '11  no  be 
preachin'  the  morn." 

This  took  Leeby  to  the  window. 

"  Yea,  yea,"  she  said  (and  I  knew  she  was 
nodding  her  head  sagaciously);  I  looked 
out  at  the  room  window,  but  all  I  could 
see  was  a  man  wheeHng  an  empty  barrow 
down  the  brae. 

"  That's  Robbie  Tosh,"  continued 
Leeby;    "  an'    there's    nae    doot    'at    he's 


12  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

makkin  for  the  minister's,  for  he  has  on 
his  black  coat.  He'll  be  to  row  the  min- 
ister's luggage  to  the  post-cart.  Ay,  an' 
that's  Davit  Lunan's  barrow.  I  ken  it  by 
the  shaft's  bein'  spliced  wi'  yarn.  Davit 
broke  the  shaft  at  the  saw-mill." 

"  He'll  be  gaen  awa  for  a  curran  [num- 
ber of]  days,"  said  Jess,  "  or  he  would  juist 
hae  taen  his  bag.  Ay,  he'll  be  awa  to 
Edinbory,  to  see  the  lass." 

"  I  wonder  wha'll  be  to  preach  the  morn 
— tod,  it  '11  likely  be  Mr.  Skinner,  frae 
Dundee;  him  an'  the  minister's  chief,  ye 
ken." 

"  Ye  micht  gang  up  to  the  attic,  Leeby, 
an'  see  if  the  spare  bedroom  vent  [chimney] 
at  the  manse  is  gaen.  We're  sure,  if  it's 
aIv.  Skinner,  he'll  come  wi'  the  post  frae 
Tilliedrum  the  nicht,  an'  sleep  at  the 
manse." 

"  Weel,  I  assure  ye,"  said  Leeby,  de- 
scending from  the  attic,  "  it  '11  no  be  j.lr. 
Skinner,  for  no  only  is  the  spare  bedroom 
vent  no  gaen,  but  the  blind's  drawn  dcon 
frae  tap  to  fut,  so  they're  no  even  airin' 
the  room.     Na,  it  canna  be  him;  rii;i'  v/liat's 


ON    THE    TRACK    OF    THE    MINISTER.  13 

mair,  it  '11  be  naebody  'at's  to  bide  a'  nicht 
at  the  manse." 

"I  wouldna  say  that;  na,  na.  It  may 
only  be  a  student;  an'  Marget  Dundas  " 
(the  minister's  mother  and  housekeeper) 
"  michtna  think  it  necessary  to  put  on  a 
fire  for  him." 

"  Tod,  I'll  tell  ye  wha  it  '11  be.  I  wonder 
I  didna  think  o'  'im  sooner.  It  '11  be  the 
lad  Wilkie;  him  'at's  mither  mairit  on 
Sam'l  Duthie's  wife's  brither.  They  bide 
in  Cupar,  an'  I  mind  'at  when  the  son  was 
here  twa  or  three  year  syne  he  was  juist 
gaen  to  begin  the  diveenity  classes  in 
Glesca." 

"  If  that's  so,  Leeby,  he  would  be  sure  to 
bide  wi'  Sam'l.  Hendry,  hae  ye  heard  'at 
Sam'l  Duthie's  expeckin'  a  stranger  the 
nicht?" 

"  Haud  yer  tongue,"  replied  Hendry, 
who  was  having  much  the  worst  of  the 
game. 

"  Ay,  but  I  ken  he  is,"  said  Leeby  tri- 
umphantly to  her  mother,  "  for  ye  mind 
when  I  was  in  at  Johnny  Watt's  (the 
draper's)  Chirsty  (Saml's  wife)  was  buyin' 


14  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

twa  yards  o'  chintz,  an'  I  couldna  think 
what  she  would  be  wantin'  't  for!  " 

"  I  thocht  Johnny  said  to  ye  'at  it  was 
for  a  present  to  Chirsty's  auntie?  " 

"Ay,  but  he  juist  guessed  that;  for, 
though  he  tried  to  get  oot  o'  Chirsty  what 
she  wanted  the  chintz  for,  she  wouldna  tell 
'im.  But  I  see  noo  what  she  was  after. 
The  lad  Wilkie  '11  be  to  bide  wi'  them,  and 
Chirsty  had  bocht  the  chintz  to  cover  the 
airm-chair  wi'.  It's  ane  o'  thae  hair  bot- 
tomed chairs,  but  terrible  torn,  so  she'll 
hae  covered  it  for  'im  to  sit  on." 

"  I  wouldna  wonder  but  ye're  richt, 
Leeby;  for  Chirsty  would  be  in  an  oncom- 
mon  fluster  if  she  thocht  the  lad's  mither 
was  hkely  to  hear  'at  her  best  chair  was 
torn.  Ay,  ay,  bein'  a  man,  he  wouldna 
think  to  tak  afT  the  chintz  an'  hae  a  look 
at  the  chair  withoot  it." 

Here  Hendry,  who  had  paid  no  attention 
to  the  conversation,  broke  in: 

"  Was  ye  speirin'  had  I  seen  Sam'l 
Duthie?  I  saw  'im  yesterday  buyin'  a 
lender  at  Will'um  Crook's  roup." 

"A   fender!     Ay,    ay,    that    settles   the 


ON    THE    TRACK    OF    THE    IMINISTER.  1 5. 

queistion,"  said  Leeby;  "  I'll  warrant  the 
fender  was  for  Chirsty's  parlor.  It's 
preyed  on  Chirsty's  mind,  they  say,  this 
fower-and-thirty  year  'at  she  doesna  hae  a 
richt  parlor  fender." 

"  Leeby,  look!  That's  Robbie  Tosh  wi^ 
the  barrow.  He  has  a  michty  load  o'  lug- 
gage. Am  thinkin'  the  minister's  bound 
for  Tilliedrum." 

"  Na,  he's  no,  he's  gaen  to  Edinbor\%  as 
ye  micht  ken  by  the  bandbo'  That  "11  be 
his  mither's  bonnet  he's  takkin'  back  to 
get  altered.  Ye'll  mind  she  was  never 
pleased  wi'  the  set  o'  the  flowers." 

"  Weel,  weel,  here  comes  the  minister 
himsel,  an'  very  snod  he  is.  Ay,  Marget's 
been  puttin'  new  braid  on  his  coat,  an'  he's 
carryin'  the  sma'  black  bag  he  bocht  in 
Dundee  last  year:  he'll  hae's  nicht-shirt  an'' 
a  comb  in't,  I  dinna  doot.  Ye  micht  rin 
to  the  corner,  Leeby,  an'  see  if  he  cries  in 
at  Jess  ]\IcTaggart's  in  passin'." 

"  It's  my  opeenion,"  said  Leeby,  return- 
ing excitedly  from  the  corner,  "  'at  the  lad 
W^ilkie's  no  to  be  preachin'  the  morn,  after 
a'.     When  I  gangs  to  the  corner,  at  ony 


-1 6  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

rate,  what  think  ye's  the  first  thing  I  see 
but  the  minister  an'  Sam'l  Duthie  meetin' 
face  to  face?  Ay,  weel,  it's  gospel  am 
tehin'  ye  when  I  say  as  Sam'l  flung  back 
his  head  an'  walkit  richt  by  the  min- 
ister!" 

"  Losh  keep  's  a',  Leeby;  ye  say  that? 
They  maun  hae  haen  a  quarrel." 

"  I'm  thinkin'  we'll  hae  ]\Ir.  Skinner  i' 
the  poopit  the  morn  after  a'." 

"  It  may  be,  it  may  be.  Ay.  ay,  look, 
Leeby,  whatna  bit  kimmer's  that  wi'  the 
twa  jugs  in  her  hand?  " 

"  Eh?  Ou,  it  '11  be  Lawyer  Ogilvy's 
servant  lassieky  gaen  to  the  farm  o'  T'now- 
head  for  the  milk.  She  gangs  ilka  Satur- 
day nicht.  But  what  did  ye  say — twa 
jugs?  Tod.  let's  see!  Ay.  she  has  so,  a 
big  jug  an'  a  little  ane.  The  little  ane  '11 
be  for  cream;  an',  sal,  the  big  ane's  bigger 
na  usual." 

"  There  maun  be  something  gaen  on  at 
the  lawyer's  if  they're  buyin'  cream,  Leeby. 
Their  reg'lar  thing's  twopence  worth  o' 
milk." 

''  Ay,  but  I  assure  ye  that  sma'  jug's  for 


ON    THE    TRACK    OF    THE    MINISTER.  17^ 

cream,  an'  I  dinna  doot  mysel'  but  'at 
there's  to  be  fowerpence  worth  o'  milk  this 
nicht." 

"  There's  to  be  a  puddin'  made  the  morn, 
Leeby.  Ou,  ay,  a'  thing  points  to  that;, 
an'  we're  very  sure  there's  nae  puddin's  at 
the  lawyer's  on  the  Sabbath  onless  they  hae 
company." 

"I  dinna  ken  wha  they  can  hae,  if  it  be 
na  that  brither  o'  the  wife's  'at  bides  oot  by 
Aberdeen." 

"  Na,  it's  no  him,  Leeby;  na,  na.  He's 
no  weel  to  do,  an'  they  wouldna  be  buyin' 
cream  for  'im." 

"  I'll  run  up  to  the  attic  again,  an'  see 
if  there's  ony  stir  at  the  lawyer's  hoose." 

By  and  by  Leeby  returned  in  triumph. 

"  Ou,  ay,"  she  said,  "  they're  expectin' 
veesitors  at  the  lawyer's,  for  I  could  see 
twa  o'  the  bairns  dressed  up  to  the  nines, 
an'  Mistress  Ogilvy  doesna  dress  them  in 
that  way  for  naething." 

"  It  fair  beats  me  though,  Leeby,  to 
guess  wha's  comin'  to  them.  Ay,  but  stop 
a  meenute,  I  wouldna  wonder,  no,  really  I 
would  not  wonder  but  what  it  '11  be '^ 


l8  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  The  very  thing  'at  was  passin'  through 
xny  head,  mother." 

"  Ye  mean  'at  the  lad  Wilkie  '11  be  to 
bide  wi'  the  lawyer  i'stead  o'  wi'  Sam'l 
Duthie?  Sal,  am  thinkin'  that's  it.  Ye 
ken  Sam'l  an'  the  lawyer  married  on 
cousins;  but  Mistress  Ogilvy  ay  lookit  on 
Chirsty  as  dirt  aneath  her  feet.  She  would 
be  glad  to  get  a  minister,  though,  to  the 
hoose,  an'  so  I  warrant  the  lad  \Vilkie  '11  be 
to  bide  a'  nicht  at  the  lawyer's." 

"  But  what  would  Chirsty  be  doin'  get- 
tin'  the  chintz  an'  the  fender  in  that  case?  " 

"  Ou,  she'd  been  expeckin'  the  lad,  of 
course.  Sal,  she'll  be  in  a  mighty  tantrum 
aboot  this.  I  wouldna  wonder  though  she 
gets  Sam'l  to  gang  ower  to  the  U.  P.'s." 

Leeby  went  once  more  to  the  attic. 

"  Ye're  wrang,  mother,"  she  cried  out. 
^'  AVhaever's  to  preach  the  morn  is  to  bide 
at  the  manse,  for  the  minister's  servant's 
been  at  Baker  Duff's  buyin'  short-bread — ^ 
half  a  lippy,  nae  doot." 

"  Are  ye  sure  o'  that,  Leeby?  " 

"  Oh,  am  certain.  The  servant  gaed  in 
to  Duff's  the  noo,  an',  as  ve  ken  fine,  the 


PREPARING    TO    RECEIVE    COMPANY,  ig 

manse  fowk  doesna  deal  wi'  him,  except 
they're  wantin'  short-bread.  He's  Auld 
Kirk." 

Leeby  returned  to  the  kitchen,  and  Jess 
sat  for  a  time  ruminating. 

"The  lad  Wilkie,"  she  said  at  last,  tri- 
umphantly, "  '11  be  to  bide  at  Lawyer 
Ogilvy's;  but  he'll  be  gacn  to  the  manse 
the  morn  for  a  tea-dinner." 

"  But  what,"  asked  Leeby,  "  about  the 
milk  an'  the  cream  for  the  lawyer's?  " 

"  Ou.  they'll  be  haen  a  puddin  for  the 
supper  the  nicht.  That's  a  michty  genteel 
thing,  I've  heard." 

It  turned  out  that  Jess  was  right  in  every 
particular. 


CHAPTER    III. 

PREPARING   TO    RECEIVE   COMPANY. 

Leeby  was  at  the  fire  brandering  a 
quarter  of  steak  on  the  tongs,  when  the 
house  was  fiung  into  consternation  by 
Hendry's  casual  remark  that  he  had  seen 


20  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

Tibbie  Mealmaker  in  the  town  with  her 
man. 

"  The  Lord  preserve's!  "  cried  Leeby. 

Jess  looked  quickly  at  the  clock. 

"  Half  fower!  "  she  said  excitedly. 

"  Then  it  canna  be  dune,"  said  Leeby, 
falling  despairingly  into  a  chair,  "  for  they 
may  be  here  ony  meenute." 

"  It's  most  michty,"  said  Jess,  turning  on 
her  husband,  "  'at  ye  should  tak  a  pleasure 
in  bringin'  this  hoose  to  disgrace.  Hoo 
did  ye  no  tell's  suner?  " 

"  I  fair  forgot,"  Hendry  answered;  "  but 
what's  a'  yer  steer?  " 

Jess  looked  at  me  (she  often  did  this)  in 
a  way  that  meant,  "  ^^'hat  a  man  is  this  I'm 
tied  to!  " 

*'  Steer!  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Is't  no  time 
we  was  makkin'  a  steer?  They'll  be  in  for 
their  tea  ony  meenute,  an'  the  room  no  sae 
muckle  as  sweepit.  Ay.  an'  me  lookin'  like 
a  sweep;  an'  Tibbie  Mealmaker  'at's  sae 
partikler  genteel  seein'  you  sic  a  sicht  as  ye 
are!" 

Jess  shook  Hendry  out  of  his  chair,  while 
Leeby  began  to  sweep  with  the  one  hand, 


PREPARING    TO    RECEIVE    COMPANY.  2  1 

and  agitatedly  to  unbutton  her  wrapper 
with  the  other. 

"  She  didna  see  me,"  said  Hendry,  sitting 
down  forlornly  on  the  table. 

"  Get  aff  that  table!  "  cried  Jess.  "  See 
haud  o'  the  besom,"  she  said  to  Leeby. 

"  For  mercy's  sake,  mother,"  said  Leeby, 
*'  gie  yer  face  a  dicht,  an'  put  on  a  clean 
mutch." 

'■  I'll  open  the  door  if  they  come  afore 
you're  ready,"  said  Hendry,  as  Leeby 
pushed  him  against  the  dresser. 

"  Ye  daur  to  speak  aboot  openin'  the 
door,  an'  you  sic  a  mess!  "  cried  Jess,  with 
pins  in  her  mouth. 

"  Havers!  "  retorted  Hendry.  "  A  man 
canna  be  aye  washin'  at  'imsel'." 

Seeing  that  Hendry  was  as  much  in  the 
way  as  myself,  I  invited  him  upstairs  to  the 
attic,  whence  we  heard  Jess  and  Leeby  up- 
braiding each  other  shrilly.  I  was  aware 
that  the  room  was  speckless;  but  for 
all  that,  Leeby  was  turning  it  upside 
down. 

"  She's  aye  taen  like  that,"  Hendry 
said  to  me,  referring  to  his  wife,   "  when 


2  2  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

she's  expectin'  company.  Ay,  it's  a  peety 
she  canna  tak  things  cannier." 

"  Tibbie  Mealmaker  must  be  someone  of 
importance?  "  I  asked. 

'*  Ou,  she's  naething  by  the  ord'nar';  but 
ye  see  she  was  marrit  to  a  Tilliedrum  man 
no  lang  syne,  an'  they're  said  to  hae  a 
michty  grand  estabhshment.  Ay,  they've  a 
wardrobe  spleet  new;  an'  what  think  ye 
Tibbie  wears  ilka  day?  " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  It  was  Chirsty  Miller  'at  put  it  through 
the  toon,"  Hendry  continued.  "  Chirsty 
was  in  Tilliedrum  last  Teisday  or  Wednes- 
day, an'  Tibbie  gae  her  a  cup  o'  tea.  Ay, 
weel,  Tibbie  telt  Chirsty  'at  she  wears  hose 
ilka  day." 

"Wears  hose?" 

"  Ay.  It's  some  michty  grand  kind  o' 
stockin'.  I  never  heard  o't  in  this  toon. 
Na,  there's  naebody  in  Thrums  'at  wears 
hose." 

"  And  who  did  Tibbie  get?  "  I  asked;  for 
in  Thrums  they  say,  "  Wha  did  she  get?  " 
and  "  Wha  did  he  tak?  " 

"  His  name's  Davit  Curly.     Ou,  a  crit- 


PREPARING    TO    RECEIVE    COMPANY.  23 

tur  fu'  o'  maggots,  an'  nae  great  match,  for 
he's  juist  the  Tilliedrum  bill-sticker." 

At  this  moment  Jess  shouted  from  her 
chair  (she  was  burnishing  the  society  tea- 
pot as  she  spoke),  "  ]\Iind,  Hendry 
McQumpha,  'at  upon  nae  condition  are  ye 
to  mention  the  bill-stickin'  afore  Tibbie!  " 

"  Tibbie,"  Hendry  explained  to  me,  "  is 
a  terrible  vain  tid,  an'  doesna  think  the  bill- 
stickin'  genteel.  Ay,  they  say  'at  if  she 
meets  Davit  in  the  street  \vi'  his  paste-pot 
an'  the  brush  in  his  hands  she  pretends  no 
to  ken  'im." 

Every  time  Jess  paused  to  think  she  cried 
up  orders,  such  as: 

"  Dinna  call  her  Tibbie,  mind  ye!  Al- 
ways address  her  as  Mistress  Curly." 

"  Shak  hands  wi'  baith  o'  them,  an'  say 
ye  hope  they're  in  the  enjoyment  o'  guid 
health." 

"  Dinna  put  yer  feet  on  the  table." 

"  ]\Iind,  you're  no  to  mention  'at  ye  kent 
they  were  in  the  toon." 

"  When  onvbody  passes  ye  yer  tea  say, 
'  Thank  ye.'  "'        ' 

"  Dinna  stir  ver  tea  as  if  ve  was  churnin' 


24  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

butter,  nor  let  on  'at  the  scones  is  no  our 
ain  bakin'." 

"  If  Tibbie  says  onything  aboot  the  china 
yer  no  to  say  'at  we  dinna  use  it  ilka  day." 

"  Dinna  lean  back  in  the  big  chair,  for  it's 
broken,  an'  Leeby's  gi'en  it  a  lick  o'  glue 
this  meenute." 

"  When  Leeby  gies  ye  a  kick  aneath  the 
table  that  '11  be  a  sign  to  ye  to  say  grace." 

Hendry  looked  at  me  apologetically 
while  these  instructions  came  up. 

''  I  winna  dive  my  head  wi'  sic  nonsense,'^ 
he  said;  "  it's  no'  for  a  man  body  to  be  sae 
crammed  fu'  o'  manners." 

"  Come  awa  doon,"  Jess  shouted  to  him^ 
'■  an'  put  on  a  clean  dickey." 

"  I'll  better  do't  to  please  her,"  said  Hen- 
dry, "  though  for  my  ain  part  I  dinna  like 
the  feel  o'  a  dickey  on  weekdays.  Na,  they 
mak's  think  it's  Sabbath." 

Ten  minutes  afterward  I  went  down 
stairs  to  see  how  the  preparations  were  pro- 
gressing. Fresh  muslin  curtains  had  been 
put  up  in  the  room.  The  grand  footstool, 
worked  b}'  Leeby,  was  so  placed  that  Tib- 
bie could  not  help  seeing  it;  and  a  fine  cam- 


PREPARING    TO    RECEIVE    COMPANY.  25 

trie  handkerchief,  of  which  Jess  was  very 
proud,  was  hanging  out  of  a  drawer,  as  if 
by  accident.  An  antimacassar  lying  care- 
lessly on  the  seat  of  a  chair  concealed  a 
rent  in  the  horsehair,  and  the  china  orna- 
ments on  the  mantelpiece  were  so  placed 
that  they  looked  whole.  Leeby's  black 
merino  was  hanging  near  the  window  in  a 
good  light,  and  Jess's  Sabbath  bonnet, 
which  was  never  worn,  occupied  a  nail  be- 
side it.  The  tea-things  stood  on  a  tray  in 
the  kitchen  bed,  whence  they  could  be 
quickly  brought  into  the  room,  just  as  if 
they  were  always  ready  to  be  used  daily. 
Leeby,  as  yet  in  deshabille,  was  shaving  her 
-father  at  a  tremendous  rate,  and  Jess,  look- 
ing as  fresh  as  a  daisy,  was  ready  to  receive 
the  visitors.  She  was  peering  through  the 
tiny  window-blind  looking  for  them. 

"  Be  cautious,  Leeby,"  Hendry  was  say- 
ing, when  Jess  shook  her  hand  at  him. 
'^  \\'heesht!  "  she  whispered;  ''they're 
comin'." 

Hendry  was  hustled  into  his  Sabbath 
coat,  and  then  came  a  tap  at  the  door,  a 
very  genteel  tap.     Jess  nodded  to  Leeby, 


2  6  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS, 

who  softly  shoved  Hendry  into  the 
room. 

The  tap  was  repeated,  but  Leeby  pushed 
her  father  into  a  chair  and  thrust  "  Barrow's 
Sermons  "  open  into  his  hand.  Then  she 
stole  but  the  house,  and  swiftly  buttoned 
her  wrapper,  speaking  to  Jess  by  nods  the 
while.  There  was  a  third  knock,  where- 
upon Jess  said,  in  a  loud,  Englishy 
voice : 

"  Was  that  not  a  chap  [knock]  at  the 
door? " 

Hendry  was  about  to  reply,  but  she 
shook  her  fist  at  him.  Next  moment 
Leeby  opened  the  door.  I  was  upstairs, 
but  I  heard  Jess  say: 

'■  Dear  me,  if  it's  not  Mrs.  Curly — and 
]\Ir.  Curly!  And  hoo  are  ye?  Come  in 
by.  Weel,  this  is,  indeed,  a  pleasant  sur- 
prise! " 


WAITING    FOR    THE    DOCTOR.  27 

CHAPTER  IV. 

WAITING   FOR  THE   DOCTOR. 

Jess  had  gone  early  to  rest,  and  the  door 
of  her  bed  in  the  kitchen  was  pulled  to. 
From  her  window  I  saw  Hendry  buying 
dulse. 

Now  and  again  the  dulseman  wheeled  his 
slimy  boxes  to  the  top  of  the  brae,  and 
sat  there  stolidly  on  the  shafts  of  his  bar- 
row. Many  passed  him  by,  but  occasion- 
ally someone  came  to  rest  by  his  side.  Un- 
less the  customer  was  loquacious,  there 
was  no  bandying  of  words,  and  Hendry 
merely  unbuttoned  his  east-trouser  pocket, 
g'iving  his  body  the  angle  at  which  the 
pocket  could  be  most  easily  filled  by  the 
dulseman.  He  then  deposited  his  half- 
penny, and  moved  on.  Neither  had 
spoken;  yet  in  the  country  they  would  have 
roared  their  predictions  about  to-morrow 
to  a  plowman  half  a  field  away. 

Dulse  is  roasted  by  twisting  it  round  the 
tongs,  fired  to  a  red-heat,  and  the  house 


28  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

was  soon  heavy  with  the  smell  of  burn- 
ing seaweed.  Leeby  was  at  the  dresser 
munching  it  from  a  broth-plate,  while 
Hendry,  on  his  knees  at  the  fireplace,  gin- 
gerly tore  off  the  blades  of  dulse  that  were 
sticking  to  the  tongs,  and  licked  his  singed 
fingers. 

"  Whaur's     yer     mother? "     he     asked. 

"  Ou,"  said  Leeby,  "  whaur  would  she 
be  but  in  her  bed?  " 

Hendry  took  the  tongs  to  the  door,  and 
would  have  cleaned  them  himself,  had  not 
Leeby  (who  often  talked  his  interfering 
ways  over  with  her  mother)  torn  them 
from  his  hands. 

"  Leeby!  "  cried  Jess  at  that  moment. 

"  Ay,"  answered  Leeby,  leisurely,  not 
noticing,  as  I  happened  to  do,  that  Jess 
spoke  in  an  agitated  voice. 

"  What  is't?  "  asked  Hendry,  who  liked 
to  be  told  things. 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  bed. 

'■  Yer  mother's  no  weel,"  he  said  to 
Leeby. 

Leeby  ran  to  the  bed,  and  I  went  ben  the 
house. 


WAITING    FOR    THE    DOCTOR.  2g 

In  another  two  minutes  we  were  a  group 
of  four  in  the  kitchen,  staring  vacantly. 
Death  could  not  have  startled  us  more,  tap- 
ping thrice  that  quiet  night  on  the  window- 
pane. 

"  It's  diphtheria!  "  said  Jess,  her  hands 
trembling  as  she  buttoned  her  wrapper. 

She  looked  at  me,  and  Leeby  looked  at 
me.  • 

"  It's  no,  it's  no,"  cried  Leeby,  and  her 
voice  was  as  a  fist  shaken  at  my  face.  She 
blamed  me  for  hesitating  in  my  reply.  But 
ever  since  this  malady  left  me  a  lonely  do- 
minie for  life,  diphtheria  has  been  a  knock- 
down word  for  me.  Jess  had  discovered  a 
great  white  spot  on  her  throat.  I  knew  the 
symptoms. 

"  Is't  dangerous?"  asked  Hendry,  who 
once  had  a  headache  years  before,  and  could 
still  refer  to  it  as  a  reminiscence. 

"  Them  'at  has  't  never  recovers,"  said 
Jess,  sitting  down  very  quietly.  A  stick 
fell  from  the  fire,  and  she  bent  forward  to 
replace  it. 

"  They  do  recover,"  cried  Leeby,  again 
turning  angry  eyes  on  me. 


30  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

I  could  not  face  her;  I  had  known  so 
many  who  did  not  recover.  She  put  her 
hand  on  her  mother's  shoulder. 

"  Mebbe  ye  would  be  better  in  yer  bed," 
suggested  Hendry. 

No  one  spoke. 

"  When  I  had  the  headache,"  said  Hen- 
dry, "  I  was  better  in  my  bed." 

Leeby  had  taken  Jess's  hand — a  worn  old 
hand  that  had  many  a  time  gone  out  in 
love  and  kindness  when  younger  hands 
were  cold.  Poets  have  sung  and  fighting 
men  have  done  great  deeds  for  hands  that 
never  had  such  a  record. 

"  If  ye  could  eat  somethin',"  said  Hen- 
dry, "  I  would  gae  to  the  flesher's  for't.  I 
mind  when  I  had  the  headache,  hoo  a  small 
steak " 

"  Gae  awa  for  the  doctor,  rayther,"  broke 
in  Leeby. 

Jess  started,  for  sufiferers  think  there  is 
less  hope  for  them  after  the  doctor  has  been 
called  in  to  pronounce  sentence. 

"  I  winna  hae  the  doctor,"  she  said  anx- 
iously. 

In    answer    to    Leeby's    nods,    Hendry 


WAITING    FOR    THE    DOCTOR.  ?! 

slowly  pulled  out  his  boots  from  beneath 
the  table,  and  sat  looking  at  them  prepara- 
tory to  putting  them  on.  He  was  begin- 
ning, at  last,  to  be  a  little  scared,  though 
his  face  did  not  show  it. 

"  I  winna  hae  ye,"  cried  Jess,  getting  to 
her  feet,  "  gaen  to  the  doctor's  sic  a  sight. 
Yer  coat's  a'  yarn." 

"  Havers!  "  said  Hendry,  but  Jess  be- 
came frantic. 

I  offered  to  go  for  the  doctor,  but,  while 
I  was  upstairs  looking  for  my  bonnet  I 
heard  the  door  slam.  Leeby  had  become 
impatient,  and  darted  oft"  herself,  buttoning 
her  jacket,  probably,  as  she  ran.  When  I 
returned  to  the  kitchen,  Jess  and  Hendry 
were  still  by  the  fire.  Hendry  was  beating 
a  charred  stick  into  sparks,  and  his  wife  sat 
with  her  hands  in  her  lap.  I  saw  Hendry 
look  at  her  once  or  twice,  but  he  could 
think  of  nothing  to  say.  His  terms  of  en- 
dearment had  died  out  thirty-nine  years  be- 
fore, with  his  courtship.  He  had  forgot- 
ten the  words.  For  his  life  he  could  not 
have  crossed  over  to  Jess  and  put  his  arm 
round  her.     Yet  he  was  very  uneasy.     His 


32  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

eyes  wandered  round  the  poorly  lit 
room. 

"  Will  ye  hae  a  drink  o'  watter?  "  he 
asked. 

There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps  out- 
side. 

*'  That  '11  be  him,"  said  Hendry  in  a 
whisper. 

Jess  started  to  her  feet,  and  told  Hendry 
to  help  her  ben  the  house. 

The  steps  died  away,  but  I  fancied  that 
Jess,  now  highly  strung,  had  gone  into  hid- 
ing, and  I  went  after  her.  I  was  mistaken. 
She  had  lit  the  room  lamp,  turning  the 
crack  in  the  globe  to  the  wall.  The  sheep- 
skin hearthrug,  which  was  generally  care- 
iully  packed  away  beneath  the  bed,  had 
been  spread  out  before  the  empty  fireplace, 
and  Jess  was  on  the  armchair  hurriedly 
putting  on  her  grand  black  mutch  with  the 
pink  flowers. 

"  I  was  juist  makkin'  mysel'  respectable," 
she  said,  but  without  life  in  her  voice. 

This  was  the  only  time  I  ever  saw  her  in 
the  room. 

Leeby  returned  panting  to  say  that  the 


WAITING    FOR    THE    DOCTOR.  3J 

doctor  might  be  expected  in  an  hour.  He 
was  away  among  the  hills. 

The  hour  passed  reluctantly.  Leeby  lit 
a  fire  ben  the  house,  and  then  put  on  her 
Sabbath  dress.  She  sat  with  her  mother  in 
the  room.  Never  before  had  I  seen  Jess 
sit  so  quietly,  for  her  way  was  to  work  until, 
as  she  said  herself,  she  was  ready  "  to  fall 
into  tier  bed." 

Hendry  wandered  between  the  two 
rooms,  always  in  the  way  when  Leeby  ran 
to  the  window  to  see  if  that  was  the  doctor 
at  last.  He  would  stand  gaping  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  for  five  minutes,  then 
slowly  withdraw  to  stand  as  drearily  but 
the  house.  His  face  lengthened.  At  last 
he  sat  down  by  the  kitchen  fire,  a  Bible  in 
his  hand.  It  lay  open  on  his  knee,  but  he 
did  not  read  much.  He  sat  there  with  his 
legs  outstretched,  looking  straight  before 
him.  I  believe  he  saw  Jess  young  again. 
His  face  was  very  solemn,  and  his  mouth 
twitched.  The  fire  sank  into  ashes  un- 
heeded. 

I  sat  alone  at  my  attic  window  for  hours^ 
waiting  for  the  doctor.     From  the  attic  I 


34  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

could  see  nearly  all  Thrums;  but,  until  very 
late,  the  night  was  dark,  and  the  brae,  ex- 
cept immediately  before  the  door,  was 
blurred  and  dim.  A  sheet  of  light  cano- 
pied the  square  as  long  as  a  cheap  Jack 
paraded  his  goods  there.  It  was  gone  be- 
fore the  moon  came  out.  Figures  tramped, 
tramped  up  the  brae,  passed  the  house  in 
shadow,  and  stole  silently  on.  A  man  or 
•boy  whistling  seemed  to  fill  the  valley. 
The  moon  arrived  too  late  to  be  of  service 
to  any  wayfarer.  Everybody  in  Thrums 
Avas  asleep  but  ourselves,  and  the  doctor 
A\  ho  never  came. 

About  midnight  Hendry  climbed  the 
attic  stair  and  joined  me  at  the  window. 
His  hand  was  shaking  as  he  pulled  back  the 
blind.  I  began  to  realize  that  his  heart 
could  still  overfiow\ 

"  She's  waur,"  he  whispered,  like  one 
who  had  lost  his  voice. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  silently,  his  hand 
on  the  blind.  He  was  so  different  from  the 
Hendry  I  had  known,  that  I  felt  myself  in 
the  presence  of  a  strange  man.  His  eyes 
were  glazed  with  staring  at  the  turn  of  the 


WAITING    FOR    THE    DOCTOR,  35 

brae  where  the  doctor  must  first  come  into 
sight.  His  breathing  became  heavier,  till 
it  was  a  gasp.  Then  I  put  my  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  and  he  stared  at  me. 

"  Nine-and-thirty  years  come  June,"  he 
said,  speaking  to  himself. 

For  this  length  of  time,  I  knew,  he  and 
Jess  had  been  married.  He  repeated  the 
words  at  intervals. 

"  I  mind "  he  began,  and  stopped. 

He  was  thinking  of  the  spring-time  of 
Jess's  life. 

The  night  ended  as  we  watched;  then 
came  the  terrible  moment  that  precedes  the 
day — the  moment  known  to  shuddering 
watchers  by  sick  beds,  when  a  chill  wind 
cuts  through  the  house,  and  the  world 
without  seems  cold  in  death.  It  is  as  if 
the  heart  of  the  earth  did  not  mean  to  con- 
tinue beating. 

"  This  is  a  fearsome  nicht,"  Hendry  said, 
hoarsely. 

He  turned  to  grope  his  way  to  the  stairs, 
but  suddenly  w^ent  down  on  his  knees  to 
pray.  .  . 

There  was  a  quick  step  outside.     I  arose 


36  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

in  time  to  see  the  doctor  on  the  brae.  He 
tried  the  latch,  but  Leeby  was  there  to  show 
him  in.  The  door  of  the  room  closed  on 
him. 

From  the  top  of  the  stair  I  could  see 
into  the  dark  passage,  and  make  out  Hen- 
dry shaking  at  the  door.  I  could  hear  the 
doctor's  voice,  but  not  the  words  he  said. 
There  was  a  painful  silence,  and  then  Leeby 
laughed  joyously. 

"It's  gone,"  cried  Jess;  "the  white 
spot's  gone!  Ye  juist  touched  it,  an'  it's 
gone!     Tell  Hendry." 

But  Hendry  did  not  need  to  be  told.  As 
Jess  spoke  I  heard  him  say  huskily: 
"  Thank  God!  "  and  then  he  tottered  back 
to  the  kitchen.  When  the  doctor  left, 
Hendry  was  still  on  Jess's  armchair,  trem- 
bling like  a  man  with  the  palsy.  Ten  min- 
utes afterward  I  was  preparing  for  bed, 
when  he  cried  up  the  stair: 

"  Come  awa  doon." 

I  joined  the  family  party  in  the  room: 
Hendry  was  sitting  close  to  Jess. 

"  Let  us  read,"  he  said  firmly,  "  in  the 
Fourteenth  of  John." 


'  A    HUMORIST    ON    HIS    CALLING.  37 

CHAPTER  V. 

A  HUMORIST  ON  HIS  CALLING. 

After  the  eight  o'clock  bell  had  rung, 
Hendry  occasionally  crossed  over  to  the 
farm  of  T'nowhead  and  sat  on  the  pig-sty. 
If  no  one  joined  him  he  scratched  the  pig, 
and  returned  home  gradually.  Here  what 
was  almost  a  club  held  informal  meetings, 
at  which  two  or  four,  or  even  half  a  dozen 
assembled  to  debate,  when  there  was  any- 
one to  start  them.  The  meetings  were 
•only  memorable  when  Tammas  Haggart 
was  in  fettle,  to  pronounce  judgments  in 
his  well-known  sarcastic  way.  Sometimes 
•we  had  got  off  the  pig-sty  to  separate  be- 
fore Tammas  was  properly  yoked.  There 
w-e  might  remain  a  long  time,  planted 
round  him  like  trees,  for  he  was  a  mesmer- 
izing talker. 

There  was  a  pail  belonging  to  the  pig- 
sty, which  someone  would  turn  bottom 
upward  and  sit  upon  if  the  attendance 
was  unusually  numerous.     Tammas  liked, 


38  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS, 

however,  to  put  a  foot  on  it  now  and  again 
in  the  full  swing  of  a  harangue,  and,  when 
he  paused  for  a  sarcasm,  I  have  seen  the 
pail  kicked  toward  him.  He  had  the  wave 
of  the  arm  that  is  so  convincing  in  argu- 
ment, and  such  a  natural  way  of  asking 
questions,  that  an  audience  not  used  to 
public  speaking  might  have  thought  he 
wanted  them  to  reply.  It  is  an  undoubted 
fact  that,  when  he  went  on  the  platform  at 
the  time  of  tlie  election,  to  heckle  the 
colonel,  he  paused  in  the  middle  of  his  ques- 
tions to  take  a  drink  out  of  the  tumbler  of 
water  which  stood  on  the  table.  As  soon 
as  they  saw  what  he  was  up  to,  the  specta- 
tors raised  a  ringing  cheer. 

On  concluding  his  perorations,  Tammas 
sent  his  snufT-mull  round,  but  we  had  our 
own  way  of  passing  him  a  vote  of  thanks. 
One  of  the  company  would  express  amaze- 
ment at  his  gift  of  w'ords,  and  the  others 
would  add,  "  Man,  man,"  or,  "  Ye  cow, 
Tammas,"  or,  "What  a  crittur  ye  are!"" 
all  which  ejaculations  meant  the  same 
thing. 

A  new  subject  being  thus  ingeniously  in- 


A    HUMORIST    ON    HIS    CALLING.  39 

troduced,  Tammas  again  put  his  foot  on 
the  pail. 

"  I  tak  no  credit,"  he  said,  modestly,  on 
the  evening,  I  remember,  of  Willie  Pyatt's 
funeral,  "  in  bein'  able  to  speak  wi'  a  sort 
o'  faceelity  on  topics  'at  I've  made  my  ain." 

"  Ay,"  said  T'nowhead,  "  but  it's  no  the 
faceelity  o'  speakin'  'at  taks  me.  There's 
Davit  Lunan  'at  can  speak  like  as  if  he  had 
learned  it  aff  a  paper,  an'  yet  I  canna  thole 
'im." 

"  Davit,"  said  Hendry,  "  doesna  speak  in 
a  \vy  'at  a  body  can  follow  'im.  He  doesna 
gae  even  on.  Jess  says  he's  juist  like  a  man 
ay  at  the  cross-roads,  an'  no  sure  o'  his  way. 
But  the  stock  has  words,  an'  no  ilka  body 
has  that." 

"  If  I  was  bidden  to  put  Tammas's  gift 
in  a  word,"  said  T'nowhead,  "  I  would  say 
'at  he  had  a  wy.  That's  what  I  would 
say." 

"  Weel,  I  suppose  I  have."  Tammas  ad- 
mitted, "  but,  wy  or  no  wy,  I  couldna  put 
a  point  on  my  words  if  it  wasna  for  my 
sense  o'  humor.  Lads,  humor's  what  gies 
the  nip  to  speakin'." 


40  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  It's  what  maks  ye  a  sarcesticist., 
Tammas,"  said  Hendry;  "  but  what  1 
wonder  at  is  yer  savin'  the  humorous  things 
sae  aisy  Hke.  Some  says  ye  mak  them  up 
aforehand,  but  I  ken  that's  no  true." 

"  No  only  is't  no  true,"  said  Tammas, 
"  but  it  couldna  be  true.  Them  'at  says 
sic  things,  an'  weel  I  ken  you're  meanin' 
Davit  Lunan,  hasna  nae  idea  o'  what  humor 
is.  It's  a  thing  'at  spouts  oot  o'  its  ain  ac- 
cord. Some  o'  the  maist  humorous  things- 
I've  ever  said  cam  oot,  as  a  body  may  say, 
by  themselves." 

"  I  suppose  that's  the  case,"  said  T'now- 
head,  "  an'  yet  it  maun  be  you  'at  brings 
them  up?  " 

"  There's  no  nae  doubt  about  its  bein' 
the  case,"  said  Tammas,  "  for  I've  watched 
mysel'  often.  There  was  a  vera  guid  in- 
stance occurred  sune  after  I  married  Easie. 
The  earl's  son  met  me  one  day,  aboot  that 
time,  i'  the  Tenements,  an'  he  didna  ken  'at 
Chirsty  was  deid,  an'  I'd  married  again. 
*  Well,  Haggart,'  he  says,  in  his  frank  wy, 
'  and  how  is  your  wife?  '     '  She's  vera  weel,. 


A    HUMORIST    ON    HIS    CALLING.  4I 

sir,'  I  maks  answer,  '  but  she's  no  the  ane 
you  mean.'  " 

"  Na,  he  meant  Chirsty,"  said  Hendry. 

"  Is  that  a'  the  story?  "  asked  T'now- 
head. 

Tammas  had  been  looking  at  us  queerly. 

"  There's  no  nane  o'  ye  lauchin',"  he 
said,  "  but  I  can  assure  ye  the  earl's  son 
gaed  east  the  toon  lauchin'  like  onything." 

''  But  what  was't  he  lauched  at?  " 

"  Ou,"  said  Tammas,  "  a  humorist 
doesna  tell  whaur  the  humor  conies  in." 

"  No,  but  when  you  said  that,  did  ye 
mean  it  to  be  humorous?  " 

"  Am  no  sayin'  I  did,  but  as  I've  been 
tellin'  ye  humor  spouts  oot  by  itsel'." 

"  Ay,  but  do  ye  ken  noo  what  the  earl's 
son  gaed  awa  lauchin'  at?  " 

Tammas  hesitated. 

"  I  dinna  exactly  see't,"  he  confessed, 
"  but  that's  no  an  oncommon  thing.  A 
humorist  would  often  no  ken  'at  he  was 
ane  if  it  wasna  by  the  wy  he  maks  other 
iowk  lauch.  A  body  canna  be  expeckit 
baith  to  mak  the  joke  an'  to  see't.  Na, 
that  would  be  doin'  twa  fowks'  wark." 


42  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  Weel,  that's  reasonable  enough,  but 
I've  often  seen  ye  lauchin'/'  said  Hendry, 
"  lang  afore  other  fowk  lauched." 

"  Nae  doubt,"  T^ammas  explained,  "  an* 
that's  because  humor  has  twa  sides,  juist 
like  a  penny  piece.  When  I  say  a  humor- 
ous thing  mysel'  I'm  dependent  on  other 
fowk  to  tak  note  o'  the  humor  o't,  bein'^ 
mysel'  taen  up  \\\  the  niakkin'  o't.  Ay, 
but  there's  things  I  see  an'  hear  'at  maks 
me  laucht,  an'  that's  the  othe^  iide  o'' 
humor." 

"  I  never  heard  it  put  sae  plain  afore,"" 
said  T'nowhead,  "  an',  sal,  am  no  nane  sure 
but  what  am  a  humorist  too." 

"  Na.  na,  no  you,  T'nowhead,"  said 
Tammas  hotly. 

"  Weel,"  continued  the  farmer,  "  I  never 
set  up  for  bein'  a  humorist,  but  I  can  juist 
assure  ye  'at  I  lauch  at  queer  things  too. 
No  lang  syne  I  woke  up  i'  my  bed  lauchin' 
like  onything,  an'  Lisbeth  thocht  I  wasna 
weel.  It  was  something  I  dreamed  'at 
made  me  lauch,  I  couldna  think  what  it 
was,  but  I  lauched  richt.  Was  that  no  fell 
like  a  humorist?  " 


A    HUMORIST    ON    HIS    CALLING.  43 

"  That  was  neither  here  nor  there,"  said 
Tammas.  "  Na,  dreams  dinna  coont,  for 
we're  no  responsible  for  them.  Ay,  an' 
what's  mair,  the  mere  lauchin's  no  the  im- 
portant side  o'  humor,  even  though  ye 
hinna  to  be  telt  to  lauch.  The  important 
side's  the  other  side,  the  sayin'  the  humor- 
ous things.  I'll  tell  ye  what:  the  humor- 
ist's like  a  man  firin'  at  a  target — he  doesna 
ken  whether  he  hits  or  no  till  them  at  the 
target  tells  'im." 

"  I  would  be  of  opeenion,"  said  Hendry, 
who  was  one  of  Tammas's  most  stanch 
admirers,  "  'at  another  mark  o'  the  rale  hu- 
morist was  his  seein'  humor  in  all  things?  " 

Tammas  shook  his  head — a  way  he  had 
when  Hendry  advanced  theories. 

"  I  dinna  hand  wi'  that  ava,"  he  said. 
*'  I  ken  fine  'at  Davit  Lunan  gaes  aboot 
sayin'  he  sees  humor  in  everything,  but 
there's  nae  surer  sign  'at  he's  no  a  genuine 
humorist.  Na,  the  rale  humorist  kens 
vara  weel  'at  there's  subjects  withoot  a 
spark  o'  humor  in  them.  When  a  subject 
rises  to  the  sublime  it  should  be  regarded 
philosophically,  an'  no  humorously.     Davit 


44  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

would  lauch  'at  the  grandest  thochts. 
whaur  they  only  fill  the  true  humorist  wi' 
awe.  I've  found  it  necessary  to  rebuke  'im 
at  times  whaur  his  lauchin'  was  oot  o'  place. 
He  pretended  aince  on  this  vera  spot  to  see 
humor  i'  the  origin  o'  cock-fightin'." 

''  Did  he,  man?  "  said  Hendry;  "  I  wasna 
here.  But  what  is  the  origin  o'  cock- 
fechtin'?" 

"  It  was  a'  i'  the  Cheap  Magazine,"  said 
T'nowhead. 

"  Was  I  sayin'  it  wasna? "  demanded 
Tammas.  "  It  was  through  me  readin'  the 
account  oot  o'  the  Cheap  Magazine  'at  the 
discussion  arose." 

"  But  what  said  the  Cheapy  was  the 
origin  o'  cock-fechtin'  ?  " 

"  T'nowhead  '11  tell  }e,"  answ^ered  Tam- 
mas; "  he  says  I  dinna  ken." 

'*  I  never  said  naething  o'  the  kind,"  re- 
turned T'nowhead  indignantly;  "  I  mind  o* 
ye  readin't  oot  fine." 

"  Ay,  weel,"  said  Tammas,  "  that's  a' 
richt.  Ou,  the  origin  o'  cock-fightin' 
gangs  back  to  the  time  o'  the  Greek  wars, 
a  thousand  or  twa  years  syne,  mair  or  less. 


A    HUMORIST    ON    HIS   CALLING.  45. 

There  was  ane,  ]\Iiltiades  by  name,  'at  was 
the  captain  o'  the  Greek  army,  an'  one  day 
he  led  them  doon  the  mountains  to  attack 
the  biggest  army  'at  was  ever  gathered 
thegither." 

"  They  were  Persians,"  interposed 
T'nowhead. 

"Are  you  telHn'  the  story,  or  am  I?" 
asked  Tammas.  "  I  kent  fine  'at  they  were 
Persians.  Weel,  jMihiades  had  the  matter 
o'  twenty  thousand  men  wi'  'im,  and  when 
they  got  to  the  foot  o'  the  mountain,  be- 
hold there  was  two  cocks  fechtin'." 

"  Man,  man,"  said  Hendry,  "  an'  was 
there  cocks  in  thae  days?  " 

"  Ondoubtedly,"  said  Tammas,  "  or  hoo 
could  thae  twa  hae  been  fechtin'?  " 

"  Ye  have  me  there,  Tammas,"  admit- 
ted Herudry.     "  Ye're  perfectly  richt." 

"Ay,  then,"  continued  the  stone-breaker, 
"  when  ^Miltiades  saw  the  cocks  at  it  wi'  all 
their  micht,  he  stopped  the  army  and  ad- 
dressed it.  '  Behold! '  he  cried,  at  the  top 
o'  his  voice,  '  these  cocks  do  not  fight  for 
their  household  gods,  nor  for  the  monu- 
ments of  their  ancestors,  nor  for  glory,  nor 


46  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

for  liberty,  nor  for  their  children,  but  only 
because  the  one  will  not  give  way  unto  the 
other.'  " 

"  It  was  nobly  said,"  declared  Hendry; 
"  na,  cocks  wouldna  hae  sae  muckle  under- 
standin'  as  to  fecht  for  thae  things.  I 
wouldna  wonder  but  what  it  was  some 
laddies  'at  set  them  at  ane  another." 

"  Hendry  doesna  see  what  Miltydes  was 
after,"  said  T'nowhead. 

''  Ye've  taen't  up  wrang,  Hendry,"  Tam- 
mas  explained.  "  What  Miltiades  meant 
was  'at  if  cocks  could  fecht  sae  weel  cot  'o 
mere  deviltry,  surely  the  Greeks  would 
fecht  terrible  for  their  gods  an'  their  bairns 
an'  the  other  things." 

"I  see,  I  see;  but  what  was  the  monu- 
ments o'  their  ancestors?  " 

"  Ou,  that  was  the  gravestanes  they  put 
up  i'  their  kirkyards." 

"  I  wonder  the  other  billies  would  want 
to  tak  them  awa.  They  would  be  a  michty 
wecht." 

"  Ay,  but  they  wanted  them,  an'  nat'rally 
the  Greeks  stuck  to  the  stanes  they  paid 
for." 


A    HUMORIST    ON    HIS    CALLING.  47 

*'  So,  SO,  an'  did  Davit  Lunan  mak  oot 
'at  there  was  humor  in  that?  " 

"  He  did  so.  He  said  it  was  a  humorous 
thing  to  think  o'  a  hale  army  lookin'  on  at 
twa  cocks  fechtin'.  I  assure  ye  I  telt  'im 
'at  I  saw  nae  humor  in't.  It  was  ane  o' 
the  most  impressive  sichts  ever  seen  by 
man,  an'  the  Greeks  was  sae  inspired  by 
what  Miltiades  said  'at  they  sweepit  the 
Persians  oot  o'  their  country." 

We  all  agreed  that  Tammas's  was  the 
genuine  humor. 

"  An'  an  enviable  possession  it  is,"  said 
Hendry. 

"  In  a  wy,"  admitted  Tammas,  "  but  no 
in  a'  wys." 

He  hesitated,  and  then  added  in  a  low 
voice: 

"  As  sure  as  death,  Hendry,  it  some- 
times taks  grip  o'  me  i'  the  kirk  itsel',  an'  I 
can  hardly  keep  frae  lauchin'." 


48  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

CHAPTER    VI. 

DEAD  THIS  TWENTY  YEARS. 

In  the  lustiness  of  youth  there  are  many 
who  cannot  feel  that  they,  too,  will  die. 
The  first  fear  stops  the  heart.  Even  then 
they  would  keep  death  at  arm's  length  by 
making  believe  to  disown  him.  Loved 
ones  are  taken  away,  and  the  boy,  the  girl, 
will  not  speak  of  them,  as  if  that  made  the 
conqueror's  triumph  the  less.  In  time  the 
fire  in  the  breast  burns  low,  and  then  in 
the  last  glow  of  the  embers,  it  is  sweeter  to 
hold  to  what  has  been  than  to  think  of  what 
may  be. 

Twenty  years  had  passed  since  Joey  ran 
down  the  brae  to  play.  Jess,  his  mother, 
shook  her  staff  fondly  at  him.  A  cart  rum- 
bled by,  the  driver  nodding  on  the  shaft. 
It  rounded  the  corner  and  stopped  sud- 
denly, and  then  a  woman  screamed.  A 
handful  of  men  carried  Joey's  dead  body 
to  his  mother,  and  that  was  the  tragedy  of 
Jess's  life. 


DEAD    THIS    TWENTY    YEARS.  49: 

Twenty  years  ago,  and  still  Jess  sat  at  the 
window,  and  still  she  heard  that  woman 
scream.  Every  other  living  being  had  for- 
gotten Joey;  even  to  Hendry  he  was  now 
scarcely  a  name,  but  there  were  times  when 
Jess's  face  quivered  and  her  old  arms  went 
out  for  her  dead  boy. 

"  God's  will  be  done,"  she  said,  "  but  oh, 
I  grudged  Him  my  bairn  terrible  sair!  I 
dinna  want  him  back  noo,  an'  ilka  day  is 
takkin'  me  nearer  to  him,  but  for  mony  a. 
lang  year  I  grudged  him  sair.  He  was- 
juist  five  minutes  gone,  an'  they  brocht  him 
back  deid,  my  Joey." 

On  the  Sabbath  day  Jess  could  not  go  to 
church,  and  it  was  then,  I  think,  that  she 
was  with  Joey  most.  There  was  often  a. 
blessed  serenity  on  her  face  when  we  re- 
turned, that  only  comes  to  those  who  have 
risen  from  their  knees  with  their  prayers 
answered.  Then  she  was  very  close  to  the 
boy  who  died.  Long  ago  she  could  not 
look  out  from  her  window  upon  the  brae, 
but  now  it  was  her  seat  in  church.  There 
on  the  Sabbath  evenings  she  sometimes, 
talked  to  me  of  Joey. 


•Jo  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUJIS. 

"  It's  been  a  fine  day,"  she  would  say, 
"  juist  like  that  day.  I  thank  the  Lord  for 
the  sunshine  noo,  but  oh!  I  thocht  at  the 
time  I  couldna  look  at  the  sun  shinin' 
again." 

"  In  all  Thrums,"  she  has  told  me,  and 
I  know  it  to  be  true,  "  there's  no  a  better 
man  than  Hendry.  There's  them  'at's 
cleverer  in  the  ways  o'  the  world,  but  my 
man,  Hendry  ]\IcOumpha,  never  did  nae- 
thing  in  all  his  life  'at  wasna  weel  intended, 
an'  though  his  words  is  common,  it's  to  the 
Lord  he  looks.  I  canna  think  but  what 
Hendry's  pleasin'  to  God.  Oh,  I  dinna 
ken  what  to  say  wi'  thankfulness  to  Him 
when  I  mind  hoo  guid  he's  been  to  me. 
There's  Leeby  'at  I  couldna  hae  done  with- 
oot,  me  bein'  sae  silly  [weak  bodily],  an' 
ay  Leeby's  stuck  by  me  an'  gien  up  her  life, 
as  ye  micht  say,  for  me.     Jamie " 

But  then  Jess  sometimes  broke  down. 

"  He's  so  far  awa,"  she  said,  after  a  time, 
"  an'  aye  when  he  gangs  back  to  London 
after  his  holidays  lie  has  a  fear  he'll  never 
see  me  again,  but  he's  terrified  to  mention 
it,  an'  I  juist  ken  by  the  wy  he  taks  haud  o' 


DEAD    THIS    TWENTY    YEARS.  51 

me,  an'  comes  riinnin'  back  to  tak  baud  o' 
me  again.  I  ken  fine  what  he's  thinkin', 
but  I  daurna  speak. 

"  Guid  is  no  \vord  for  ^vhat  Jamie  has 
been  to  me,  but  he  wasna  born  till  after 
Joey  died.  When  we  got  Jamie,  Hendry 
took  to  whistlin'  again  at  the  loom,  an' 
Jamie  juist  filled  Joey's  place  to  him.  Ay, 
but  naebody  could  fill  Joey's  place  to  me. 
It's  different  to  a  man.  A  bairn's  no  the 
same  to  him,  but  a  fell  bit  o'  me  was 
buried  in  my  laddie's  grave. 

"  Jamie  an'  Joey  was  never  nane  the 
same  nature.  It  was  aye  something  in  a 
shop,  Jamie  wanted  to  be,  an'  he  never 
cared  muckle  for  his  books,  but  Joey 
hankered  after  being  a  minister,  young  as 
he  was,  an'  a  minister  Hendry  an'  me  would 
hae  done  our  best  to  mak  him.  Mony, 
mon}^  a  time  after  he  came  in  frae  the  kirk 
on  the  Sabbath  he  would  stand  up  at  this 
very  window  and  wave  his  hands  in  a 
reverent  way,  juist  like  the  minister. 
His  first  text  was  to  be  '  Thou  God  seest 
me.' 

'■'  Ye'll  wonder  at  me,  but  I've  sat  here 


52  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

in  the  lang  fore-nichts  dreamin'  'at  Joey 
was  a  grown  man  noo,  an'  'at  I  was  puttin' 
on  my  bonnet  to  come  to  the  kirk  to  hear 
him  preach.  Even  as  far  back  as  twenty 
years  an'  mair  I  wasna  able  to  gang  aboot, 
but  Joey  would  say  to  me,  '  We'll  get  a 
carriage  to  ye,  mother,  so  'at  ye  can  come 
and  hear  me  preach  on  "  Thou  God  seest 
me."  '  He  would  say  to  me,  '  It  doesna 
do,  mother,  for  the  minister  in  the  pulpit 
to  nod  to  ony  o'  the  fowk,  but  I'll  gie  ye  a 
look  an'  ye'll  ken  it's  me.'  Oh,  Joey!  I 
would  hae  gien  you  a  look,  too,  an'  ye 
would  hae  kent  what  I  was  thinkin'.  He 
often  said,  '  Ye'll  be  proud  o'  me,  will  ye 
no,  mother,  when  ye  see  me  comin'  sailin' 
alang  to  the  pulpit  in  my  gown?'  So  I 
would  hae  been  proud  o'  him,  an'  I  was 
proud  to  hear  him  speakin'  o't.  'The 
other  fowk,'  he  said,  '  will  besittin'  in  their 
seats  wonderin'  what  my  text's  to  be;  but 
you'll  ken,  mother,  an'  you'll  turn  up  to 
"  Thou  God  seest  me,"  afore  I  gie  oot  the 
chapter.'  Ay,  but  that  day  he  was  cof- 
fined, for  all  the  minister  prayed,  I  found 
it  hard  to  sav,  '  Thou  God  seest  me.'     It's 


DEAD    THIS    TWENTY    YEARS.  53 

the  text  I  like  best  noo,  though,  an'  when 
Hendry  an'  Leeby  is  at  the  kirk,  1  turn't 
up  often,  often  in  the  Bible.     I  read  frae 
the  beginnin'  o'  the  chapter,  but  when  I 
come  to  '  Thou  God  seest  me,'  I  stop.     Na, 
it's  no  'at  there's  ony  rebellion  to  the  Lord 
in  my  heart  noo,  for  I  ken  He  was  lookin' 
doon  when  the  cart  gaed  ower  Joey,  an'  He 
wanted  to  tak  my  laddie  to  himsel'.     But 
juist  when  I  come  to  '  Thou  God  seest  me,' 
I  let  the  Book  lie  in  my  lap,  for  aince  a 
body's  sure  o'  that  they're  sure  o'  all.     Ay, 
ye'll  laugh,  but  I  think,  mebbe  juist  because 
I  was  his  mother,  'at  though  Joey  never 
lived  to  preach  in  a  kirk,  he's  preaching 
frae  '  Thou  God  seest  me'  to  me.     I  dinna 
ken  'at  I  would  ever  hae  been  sae  sure  o' 
that  if  it  hadna  been  for  him,  an'  so  I  think 
I  see  'im  sailin'  doon  to  the  pulpit  juist 
as  he  said  he  would  do.     I  seen  him  gien 
me  the  look  he  spoke  o' — ay,  he  looks  my 
wy  first,  an'  I  ken  it's  him.     Naebody  sees 
him  but  me,  but  I  see  him  gien  me  the  look 
he  promised.     He's  so  terrible  near  me,  an' 
him  dead,  'at  when  my  time  comes  I'll  be 
rale   willin'   to    go.     I    dinna   say   that   to 


54  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

Jamie,  because  he  all  trembles;  but  I'm  auld 
noo,  an'  I'm  no  nane  loath  ^o  gang." 

Jess's  staff  probably  had  a  history  before 
it  became  hers,  for,  as  known  to  me,  it  was 
always  old  and  black.  If  we  studied  them 
sufficiently  we  might  discover  that  staves 
age  perceptibly  just  as  the  hair  turns  gray. 
At  the  risk  of  being  thought  fanciful  I  dare 
to  say  that  in  inanimate  objects,  as  in  our- 
selves, there  is  honorable  and  shameful  olcL 
age,  and  that  to  me  Jess's  staff  was  a  S3'm- 
bol  of  the  good,  the  true.  It  rested  against 
her  in  the  window,  and  she  was  so  help- 
less without  it  when  on  her  feet,  that  to 
those  who  saw  much  of  her  it  was  part  of 
herself.  The  staff  was  very  short,  nearly  a 
foot  having  been  cut,  as  I  think  she  once 
told  me  herself,  from  the  original,  of  which 
to  make  a  porridge  thieval  (or  stick  with 
which  to  stir  porridge),  and  in  the  moving 
Jess  leaned  heavily  on  it.  Had  she  stood 
erect  it  would  not  have  touched  the  floor. 
This  was  the  staff  that  Jess  shook  so  joy- 
fully at  her  boy  the  forenoon  in  May  when 
he  ran  out  to  his  death.  Joey,  however^ 
was  associated  in 'Jess's  memory  w:th  her 


DEAD    THIS    TWENTY    YEARS.  55 

■Staff  in  less  painful  ways.  When  she  spoke 
of  him  she  took  the  dwarf  of  a  staff  in  her 
hands  and  looked  at  it  softly. 

"  It's  hard  to  me,"  she  would  say,  "  to 
believe  'at  twa  an'  twenty  years  hae  come 
and  gone  since  the  nicht  Joey  hod  [hid] 
my  staff.  Ay,  but  Hendry  was  straucht  in 
thae  days  by  what  he  is  noo,  an'  Jamie 
wasna  born.  Twa  an'  twenty  years  come 
the  back  end  o'  the  year,  an'  it  wasna  thocht 
'at  I  could  live  through  the  winter.  '  Ye'll 
no  last  mair  than  anither  month,  Jess,'  was 
Avhat  my  sister  Bell  said,  when  she  came  to 
see  me,  and  yet  here  I  am  aye  sittin'  at 
my  window,  an'  Bell's  been  i'  the  kirkyard 
this  dozen  years. 

"  Leeby  was  saxteen  months  younger 
than  Joey,  an'  mair  quiet  like.  Her  heart 
was  juist  set  on  helpin'  aboot  the  hoose,  an' 
though  she  was  but  fower  year  auld  she 
could  kindle  the  fire  an'  red  up  [clean  up] 
the  room.  Leeby's  been  my  savin'  ever 
since  she  was  fower  year  auld.  Ay,  but  it 
was  Joey  'at  hung  aboot  me  maist.  an'  he 
took  notice  'at  I  wasna  gaen  out  as  I  used 
to  do.     Since  sur€  after  my  marriage  I've 


c6  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

needed  the  stick,  but  there  was  days  'at  I 
could  gang  across  the  road  an'  sit  on  a 
stane.  Joey  kent  there  was  something 
wrang  when  I  had  to  gie  that  up,  an'  syne- 
he  noticed  'at  I  couldna  even  gang  to  the 
window  unless  Hendry  kind  o'  carried  me. 
Na,  ye  wouldna  think  'at  there  could  hae 
been  days  when  Hendry  did  that,  but  he 
did.  He  was  a  sort  o'  ashamed  if  ony  o'  the 
neighbors  saw  him  so  affectionate  like,  but 
he  was  terrible  taen  up  aboot  me.  His 
loom  was  doon  at  T'nowhead's  Bell's. 
father's,  an'  often  he  cam  awa  up  to  see  if  I 
was  ony  better.  He  didna  lat  on  to  the 
other  weavers  'at  he  was  comin'  to  see  what 
like  I  was.  Na,  he  juist  said  he'd  forgot- 
ten a  pirn,  or  his  cruizey  lamp,  or  onything. 
Ah,  but  he  didna  mak  nae  pretense  o'  no 
carin'  for  me  aince  he  was  inside  the  hoose. 
He  came  crawlin'  to  the  bed  no  to  wauken 
me  if  I  was  sleepin',  an'  mony  a  time  I 
made  belief  'at  I  was,  juist  to  please  him. 
It  was  an  awfu'  business  on  him  to  hae  a 
young  wife  sae  helpless,  but  he  wasna  the 
man  to  cast  that  at  me.  I  mind  o'  sayin' 
to  him  one  day  in  my  bed,  '  Ye  made  a 


DEAD    THIS    TWENTY    YEARS.  57 

poor  bargain,  Hendry,  \vhen  ye  took  me.' 
But  he  says,  '  Not  one  soul  in  Thrums  '11 
daur  say  that  to  me  but  yersel',  Jess.  Na, 
na,  my  dawty,  you're  the  wuman  o'  my 
choice;  there's  juist  one  \vuman  i'  the 
Avarld  to  me,  an'  that's  you,  my  ain  Jess.' 
Twa  an'  t\venty  years  syne.  Ay,  Hendry 
called  me  fond  like  names,  thae  no  every- 
day names.     W^hat  a  straucht  man  he  was! 

"  The  doctor  had  said  he  could  do  no 
more  for  me,  an'  Hendry  was  the  only  ane 
'at  didna  gie  me  up.  The  bairns,  of  course, 
didna  understan',  and  Joey  would  come  into 
the  bed  an'  play  on  the  top  o'  me.  Hen- 
dry would  hae  taen  him  awa,  but  I  liked  to 
hae  'im.  Ye  see,  we  was  lang  married 
afore  we  had  a  bairn,  an'  though  I  couldna 
bear  ony  other  weight  on  me,  Joey  didna 
hurt  me,  somehoo.  I  liked  to  hae  'im  so 
•close  to  me. 

"  It  was  through  that  'at  he  came  to  bury 
my  staff.  I  couldna  help  often  thinkin'  o' 
what  like  the  hoose  would  be  when  I  was 
gone.an'aboot  Leeby  an' Joey  left  so  young. 
So,  when  I  could  say  it  without  greetin',  I 
said  to  Joey  'at  I  was  goin'  far  awa,  an' 


5 8  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

would  he  be  a  terrible  guid  laddie  to  his- 
father  and  Leeby  when  I  was  gone?  He 
aye  juist  said,  '  Dinna  gang,  mother;  dinna 
gang,'  but  one  day  Hendry  came  in  frae 
his  loom,  and  says  Joey,  '  Father,  whaur's 
my  mother  gaen  to,  awa  frae  us?  '  I'll 
never  forget  Hendry's  face.  His  mooth 
juist  opened  an'  shut  twa  or  three  times,  an' 
he  walked  quick  ben  to  the  room.  I  cried 
oot  to  him  to  come  back,  but  he  didna 
come,  so  I  sent  Joey  for  him.  Joey  came 
runnin'  back  to  me  sayin',  '  Mother  t 
mother!  am  awfu'  fleid  [frightened],  for  my 
father's  greetin'  sair.' 

"  A'  thae  things  took  a  hand  o'  Joey,  an' 
he  ended  in  gien  us  a  fieg  [fright].  I  was 
sleepin'  ill  at  the  time,  an'  Hendry  was  ben^ 
sleepin'  in  the  room  wi'  Leeby,  Joey  bein*^ 
wi'  me.  Ay,  weel,  one  nicht  I  woke  up  in 
the  dark  an'  put  oot  my  hand  to  'im,  an* 
he  wasna  there.  I  sat  up  wi'  a  terrible 
start,  an'  syne  I  kent  by  the  cauld  'at  the 
door  maun  be  open.  I  cried  oot  quick  to 
Hendry,  but  he  was  a  soond  sleeper,  an'  he 
didna  hear  me.  Ay,  I  dinna  ken  hoo  I  did 
it,  but  I  got  ben  to  the  room  an'  shook  him. 


DEAD    THIS    TWENTY    YEARS.  59 

■Up.  I  was  near  daft  wi'  fear  when  I 
saw  Leeby  wasna  there  either.  Hendry 
couldna  tak  it  in  a'  at  aince,  but  sune  he 
had  his  trousers  on,  an'  he  made  me  he 
down  on  his  bed.  He  said  he  wouldna 
move  till  I  did  it,  or  I  wouldna  hae 
dune  it.  As  sune  as  he  was  oot  o'  the 
hoose  crying  their  names  I  sat  up  in  my 
bed  hstenin'.  Sune  I  heard  speakin',  an' 
in  a  minute  Leeby  comes  runnin'  in  to  me, 
roarin'  an'  greetin'.  She  was  barefeeted, 
and  had  juist  her  nichtgown  on,  and  her 
teeth  was  chatterin'.  I  took  her  into  the 
bed,  but  it  was  an  hour  afore  she  could  tell 
xne  onything,  she  was  in  sic  a  state. 

"  Sune  after  Hendry  came  in  carrying 
Joey.  Joey  was  as  naked  as  Leeby,  and  as 
cauld  as  lead,  but  he  wasna  greetin'.  In- 
stead o'  that  he  was  awfu'  satisfied  like,  and 
for  all  Hendry  threatened  to  lick  him  he 
wouldna  tell  what  he  an'  Leeby  had  been 
•doin'.  He  says,  though,  says  he,  '  Ye'll  nu 
gang  awa  noo,  mother;  no,  ye'll  bide  noo.' 
My  bonny  laddie,  I  didna  fathom  him  at 
.the  time. 

"  It  was  Leeby  'at  I  got  it  frae.     Ye  see, 


6o  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

Joey  had  never  seen  me  gaen  ony  gait  with- 
oot  my  staff,  an'  he  thocht  if  he  hod  it  I 
wouldna  bf  able  to  gang  awa.  Ay,  he 
planned  it  all  oot,  though  he  was  but  a 
bairn,  an'  lay  watchin'  me  in  my  bed  till 
I  fell  asleep.  Syne  he  creepit  oot  o'  the 
bed,  an'  got  the  staff,  and  gaed  ben  for 
Leeby.  She  was  field,  but  he  said  it  v;as 
the  only  wy  to  mak  me  'at  I  couldna  gang 
awa.  It  was  juist  ower  there  whaur  thae 
cabbages  is  'at  he  dug  the  hole  wi'  a  spade, 
an'  buried  the  staff.  Hendry  dug  it  up 
next  mornin'." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  STATEMENT  OF  TIBBIE  BIRSE. 

On  a  Thursday  Pete  Lownie  was  buried, 
and  when  Hendry  returned  from  the 
funeral  Jess  asked  if  Davit  Lunan  had  been 
there. 

"  Na,"  said  Hendry,  who  was  shut  up  in 
the  closet-bed,  taking  off  his  blacks,  "  I 
heard  tell  he  wasna  bidden." 


THE    STATEMENT    OF    TIBBIE    BIRSE,  6l 

"  Yea,  yea,"  said  Jess,  nodding  to  me  sig- 
nificantly. "  Ay,  weel,"  she  added,  "  we'll 
be  hae'n  Tibbie  ower  here  on  Saturday  to 
deve's  [weary  us]  to  death  aboot  it." 

Tibbie,  Davit's  wife,  was  sister  to  Mar- 
get,  Pete's  widow,  and  she  generally  did 
visit  Jess  on  Saturday  night  to  talk  about 
Marget,  who  was  fast  becoming  one  of  the 
most  fashionable  persons  in  Thrums.  Tib- 
bie was  hopelessly  plebeian.  She  was  none 
of  your  proud  kind,  and  if  I  entered  the 
kitchen  when  she  was  there  she  pretended 
not  to  see  me,  so  that,  if  I  chose,  I  might 
escape  without  speaking  to  the  like  of  her. 
I  always  grabbed  her  hand,  however,  in  a 
frank  way. 

On  Saturday  Tibbie  made  her  appear- 
ance. From  the  rapidity  of  her  walk,  and 
the  way  she  was  sucking  in  her  mouth,  I 
knew  that  she  had  strange  things  to  un- 
fold. She  had  pinned  a  gray  shawl  about 
her  shoulders,  and  wore  a  black  mutch  over 
her  dangling  gray  curls. 

"  It's  you,  Tibbie,"  I  heard  Jess  say,  as 
the  door  opened. 

Tibbie  did  not  knock,   not  considering 


62  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

herself  grand  enough  for  ceremony,  and, 
indeed,  Jess  would  have  resented  her 
knocking.  On  the  other  hand,  when  Leeby 
visited  Tibbie,  she  knocked  as  politely  as 
if  she  were  collecting  for  the  precentor's 
present.  All  this  showed  that  we  were  su- 
perior socially  to  Tibbie. 

"  Ay,  hoo  are  ye,  Jess?  "  Tibbie  said. 

"  Muckle  aboot  it,"  answered  Jess; 
"  juist  aff  an'  on;  ay,  an'  hoo  hae  ye  been 
yersel'?  " 

"  Ou,"  said  Tibbie. 

I  wish  I  could  write  "  Ou  "  as  Tibbie  said 
it.  With  her  it  was  usually  a  sentence  in 
itself.  Sometimes  it  was  a  mere  bark, 
again  it  expressed  indignation,  surprise, 
rapture;  it  might  be  a  check  upon  emotion 
or  a  way  of  leading  up  to  it,  and  often  it 
lasted  for  half  a  minute.  In  this  instance 
it  was,  I  should  say,  an  intimation  that  if 
Jess  was  ready  to  listen  Tibbie  would 
begin. 

"  So  Pete  Lownie's  gone,"  said  Jess, 
whom  I  could  not  see  from  ben  the  house. 
I  had  a  good  glimpse  of  Tibbie,  however, 
through  the  open  doorways.     She  had  the 


THE    STATEMENT    OF    TIBBIE    BIRSE.  6;^ 

armchair  on  the  south  side,  as  she  would 
have  said,  of  the  fireplace. 

"  He's  awa,"  assented  Tibbie,  primly. 

I  heard  the  lid  of  the  kettle  dancing, 
and  then  came  a  prolonged  "  Ou."  Tibbie 
bent  forward  to  whisper,  and  if  she  had  any- 
thing terrible  to  tell  I  was  glad  of  that,  for 
when  she  whispered  I  heard  her  best.  For 
a  time  only  a  murmur  of  words  reached  me, 
distant  music  with  an  "  Ou  "  now  and 
again  that  fired  Tibbie  as  the  beating  of  his 
drum  may  rouse  the  martial  spirit  of  a 
drummer.  At  last  our  visitor  broke  into  an 
agitated  whisper,  and  it  was  only  when  she 
stopped  whispering,  as  she  did  now  and 
again,  that  I  ceased  to  hear  her.  Jess  evi- 
dently put  a  question  at  times,  but  so 
politely  (for  she  had  on  her  best  wrapper) 
that  I  did  not  catch  a  word. 

"  Though  I  should  be  struck  deid  this 
nicht,"  Tibbie  whispered,  and  the  sibilants 
hissed  between  her  few  remaining  teeth,  ''  I 
wasna  sae  muckle  as  speired  to  the  layin' 
oot.  There  was  Mysy  Cruickshanks  there, 
an'  Kitty  Wobster  'at  was  nae  friends  to  the 
corpse  to  speak  o',  but  Marget  passed  by 


^4  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

me — me  'at  is  her  ain  flesh  an'  blood, 
though  it  mayna  be  for  the  Hke  o'  me  to 
say  it.  It's  gospel  truth,  Jess,  I  tell  ye, 
when  I  say  'at,  for  all  I  ken  officially,  as  ye 
micht  say,  Pete  Lownie  may  be  weel  and 
hearty  this  day.  If  I  was  to  meet  Marget 
in  the  face  I  couldna  say  he  was  deid, 
though  I  ken  'at  the  wricht  cof^ned  him; 
na,  an'  what's  mair,  I  wouldna  gie  Marget 
the  satisfaction  o'  hearin'  me  say  it.  No, 
Jess,  I  tell  ye,  I  dinna  pertend  to  be  on  an 
equalty  wi'  Marget,  but,  equalty  or  no 
equalty,  a  body  has  her  feelings,  an'  lat  on 
'at  I  ken  Pete's  gone  I  will  not.  Eh?  Ou, 
weel,  .  . 

"  Na  faags  a;  na,  na.  I  ken  my  place 
better  than  to  gang  near  Marget.  I  dinna 
fdeny  'at  she's  grand  by  me,  and  her  keeps 
a  bakehoose  o'  her  ain,  an'  glad  am  I  to 
jsee  her  doin'  sae  weel,  but  let  me  tell  ye 
this,  Jess,  '  Pride  goeth  before  a  fall.'  Yes, 
it  does,  it's  Scripture;  ay,  it's  nae  mak-up 
o'  mine,  it's  Scripture.  And  this  I  will  say, 
though  kennin'  my  place,  'at  Davit  Lunan 
is  as  dainty  a  man  as  is  in  Thrums,  an' 
there's  no  one  'at's  better  behaved  at  a 


THE    STATEMENT    OF    TIBBIE    BIRSE.  65 

bural,  being  particularly  wise-like  [pre- 
sentable] in's  blacks,  an'  them  spleet  new. 
Na,  na,  Jess,  Davit  may  hae  his  faults  an' 
tak  a  dram  at  times  like  anither,  but  he 
would  shame  naebody  at  a  bural,  an'  Mar- 
get  deleeberately  insulted  him,  no  speirin' 
him  to  Pete's.  What's  mair,  when  the 
minister  cried  in  to  see  me  yesterday,  an' 
me  on  the  floor  washin',  says  he,  '  So  Mar- 
get's  lost  her  man,'  an'  I  said,  '  Say  ye  so, 
na?  '  for  lat  on  'at  I  kent,  and  neither  me  at 
the  laying  oot  nor  Davit  Lunan  at  the 
funeral,  I  would  not. 

"  '  David  should  hae  gone  to  the  funeral/ 
says  the  minister,  '  for  I  doubt  not  he  was 
only  omitted  in  the  invitations  by  a  mis- 
take.' 

"  Ay,  it  was  weel  meant;  but  says  I,  Jess, 
says  I,  '  As  lang  as  am  livin'  to  tak  chairge 
o'  'im,  Davit  Lunan  gangs  to  nae  burals 
'at  he's  no  bidden  to.  An'  I  tell  ye,'  I  says 
to  the  minister,  *  if  there  was  one  body  'at 
had  a  richt  to  be  at  the  bural  o'  Pete  Low- 
nie,  it  was  Davit  Lunan,  him  bein  my  man 
an'  Marget  my  ain  sister.  Yes,'  says  I, 
though  am  no  o'  the  boastin'  kind,  '  Davit 


66  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

had  maist  richt  to  be  there  next  to  Pete 
'imsel'.     Ou,  Jess.  .  . 

"  This  is  no  a  maiter  I  Hke  to  speak 
aboot;  na,  I  dinna  care  to  mention  it,  but 
the  neighbors  is  nat'rally  taen  up  aboot  it, 
and  Chirsty  Tosh  was  savin'  what  I  would 
wager  'at  jMarget  hadna  sent  the  minister 
to  hint  'at  Davit's  bein'  overlookit  in  the  in- 
vitations was  juist  an  accident?  Losh,  losh, 
Jess,  to  think  'at  a  woman  could  hae  the 
michty  assurance  to  mak  a  tool  o'  the  very 
minister!  But,  sal,  as  far  as  that  gangs, 
Marget  would  do  it,  an'  gae  twice  to  the 
kirk  next  Sabbath,  too;  but  if  she  thinks 
she's  to  get  ower  me  like  that,  she  taks  me 
for  a  bigger  fule  than  I  tak  her  for.  Na, 
na,  Marget,  ye  dinna  draw  my  leg  [de- 
ceive me].     Ou,  no.  .  . 

"  Mind  ye,  Jess,  I  hae  no  desire  to  be 
friends  wi'  Marget.  Naething  could  be 
farrer  frae  my  wish  than  to  hae  helpit  in  the 
layin'  oot  o'  Pete  Lownie,  an',  I  assure  ye. 
Davit  wasna  keen  to  gang  to  the  bural. 
'  If  they  dinna  want  me  to  their  burals,' 
Davit  says,  '  they  hae  nae  mair  to  do  than 
to  say  sae.     But  I  warn  ye.  Tibbie,'  he  says, 


THE    STATEMENT    OF    TIBBIE    BIRSE,  6? 

*  if  there's  a  bural  frae  this  hoose,  be  it 
your  bural,  or  be  it  my  bural,  not  one  o' 
the  family  o'  Lownies  casts  their  shadows 
upon  the  corp.'  Thae  was  the  very  words 
Davit  said  to  me  as  we  watched  the  hearse 
frae  the  skylicht.  Ay,  he  bore  up  won- 
derfu',  but  he  felt  it,  Jess — he  felt  it,  as  I 
could  tell  by  his  takkin'  to  drink  again  that 
very  nicht.     Jess,  Jess.  .  . 

"  Marget's  getting  waur  an'  waur?  Ay, 
ye  may  say  so,  though  I'll  say  naething 
agin  her  mysel'.  Of  coorse  am  no  oa 
equalty  wi'  her,  especially  since  she  had  the 
bell  put  up  in  her  hoose.  Ou,  I  hinna  seen, 
it  mysel',  na,  I  never  gang  near  the  hoose,, 
an',  as  mony  a  body  can  tell  ye,  when  I  do- 
hae  to  gang  that  wy  I  mak  my  feet  my 
friend.  Ay,  but  as  I  was  sayin',  Marget's 
sae  grand  noo  'at  she  has  a  bell  in  the 
hoose.  As  I  understan',  there's  a  rope  in 
the  wast  room,  an'  when  ye  pu'  it  a  bell 
rings  in  the  east  room.  Weel,  when  Mar- 
get  has  company  at  their  tea  in  the  wast 
room,  an'  they  need  mair  watter  or  scones 
or  onything,  she  rises  an'  rings  the  belL 
Syne  Jean,  the  auldest  lassie,  gets  up  frae 


68  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

the  table  an'  lifts  the  jug  or  the  plates  an* 
gaes  awa  ben  to  the  east  room  for  what's 
wanted.  Ay,  it's  a  wy  o'  doin'  'at's  juist 
like  the  gentry,  but  I'll  tell  ye,  Jess,  Pete 
juist  fair  hated  the  soond  o'  that  bell,  an' 
there's  them  'at  says  it  was  the  death  o' 
'im.  To  think  o'  Marget  haen  sic  an 
establishment!  .  .  . 

'  *'  Na,  I  hinna  seen  the  mournin',  I've 
heard  o't.  Na,  if  Marget  doesna  tell  me 
naething,  am  no  the  kind  to  speir  naething, 
an'  though  I'll  be  at  the  kirk  the  morn,  I 
winna  turn  my  held  to  look  at  the 
mournin'.  But  it's  fac  as  death  I  ken  frae 
Janet  McQuhatty  'at  the  bonnet's  a'  crape, 
an'  three  yairds  o'  crape  on  the  dress,  the 
which  Marget  calls  a  costume.  .  .  Ay,  I 
wouldna  wonder  but  what  it  was  hale  wat- 
ter  the  morn,  for  it  looks  michty  like  rain, 
an'  if  it  is  it  '11  serve  Marget  richt,  an' 
mebbe  bring  doon  her  pride  a  wee.  No  'at 
I  want  to  see  her  humbled,  for,  in  coorse, 
she's  grand  by  the  like  o'  me.  Ou, 
but " 


A    CLOAK    WITH    BEADS.  69 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

A    CLOAK    WITH    BEADS. 

On  weekdays  the  women  who  passed  the 
"window  were  meagerly  dressed,  mothers  in 
draggled  winsey  gowns,  carrying  infants 
that  were  armfnls  of  grandeur.  The  Sab- 
bath clothed  everyone  in  her  best,  and  then 
the  women  went  by  with  their  hands  spread 
out.  When  I  was  with  Hendry  cloaks  with 
beads  were  the  fashion,  and  Jess  sighed  as 
■she  looked  at  them.  They  were  known  in 
Thrums  as  the  Eleven  and  a  Bits  (three- 
penny bits),  that  being  their  price  at 
Kyowowy's  in  the  square.  Kyowowy 
means  finicky,  and  applied  to  the  draper  by 
general  consent.  No  doubt  it  was  very 
characteristic  to  call  the  cloaks  by  their 
market  value.  In  the  glen  my  scholars  still 
talk  of  their  schoolbooks  as  the  tupenny, 
the  fowerpenny,  the  saxpenny.  They  fin- 
ish their  education  with  the  tenpenny. 

jess's  opportunity  for  handling  the  gar- 
ments that  others  of  her  sex  could  iingfer 


70  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

in  shops  was  when  she  had  guests  to  tea. 
Persons  who  merely  dropped  in  and  re- 
mained to  tea  got  their  meal,  as  a  rule,  in 
the  kitchen.  They  had  nothing  on  that 
Jess  could  not  easily  take  in  as  she  talked  to 
them.  But,  when  they  came  by  special  invi- 
tation, the  meal  was  served  in  the  room,  the 
guests'  things  being  left  on  the  kitchen  bed. 
Jess  not  being  able  to  go  ben  the  house, 
had  to  be  left  with  the  things.  When 
the  time  to  go  arrived,  these  were  found  on 
the  bed,  just  as  they  had  been  placed  there,, 
but  Jess  could  now  tell  Leeby  whether  they 
were  imitation;  why  Bell  Elshioner's 
feather  went  far  round  the  bonnet,  and 
Chirsty  Lownie's  reason  for  always  hold- 
ing her  left  arm  fast  against  her  side  when 
she  went  abroad  in  the  black  jacket.  Ever 
since  My  Hobart's  eleven  and  a  bit  was  left 
on  the  kitchen  bed  Jess  had  hungered  for  a 
cloak  with  beads.  My's  was  the  very  mar- 
rows of  the  one  T'nowhead's  wife  got  in 
Dundee  for  ten-and-sixpence;  indeed,  we 
would  have  thought  that  'Lisbeth's  also 
came  from  Kyowowy's  had  not  Sanders 
Elshioner's  sister  seen  her  go  into  the  Dun- 


A    CLOAK    WITH    BEADS.  7 1 

dee  shop  with  T'nowhead  (who  was  loath), 
and  hung  about  to  discover  what  she  was 
after. 

Hendry  was  not  quick  at  reading  faces 
like  Tammas  Haggart,  but  the  wistful  look 
on  Jess's  face  when  there  was  talk  of  eleven 
and  a  bits  had  its  meaning  for  him. 

"  They're  grand  to  look  at'  no  doubt," 
I  have  heard  him  say  to  Jess,  "  but  they're 
richt  annoyin'.  That  new  wife  o'  Peter 
Dickie's  had  ane  on  in  the  kirk  last  Sab- 
bath, an'  wi'  her  sittin'  juist  afore  us  I 
couldna  listen  to  the  sermon  for  tryin'  to 
count  the  beads." 

Hendry  made  his  way  into  these  gossips 
uninvited,  for  his  opinions  on  dress  were 
considered  contemptible,  though  he  was 
worth  consulting  on  material.  Jess  and 
Leeby  discussed  many  things  in  his  pres- 
ence, confident  that  his  ears  were  not  doing 
their  work ;  but  every  now  and  then  it  was 
discovered  that  he  had  been  hearkening 
greedily.  If  the  subject  was  dress,  he 
might  then  become  a  little  irritating. 

"Oh,  they're  grand!"  Jess  admitted; 
"  they  set  a  body  aff  oncommon." 


72  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  They  would  be  no  use  to  you,"  said 
Hendry,  "  for  ye  canna  wear  them  ex- 
cept ootside." 

"  A  body  doesna  buy  cloaks  to  be  wearin' 
at  them  steady,"  retorted  Jess. 

"  No,  no,  but  you  could  never  wear 
yours  though  ye  had  ane." 

"  I  dinna  want  ane.  They're  far  ower 
grand  for  the  like  o'  me." 

"  They're  no  nae  sic  thing.  Am 
thinkin'  ye're  juist  as  fit  to  wear  an  eleven 
and  a  bit  as  My  Hobart." 

'■  Weel,  mebbe  I  am,  but  it's  oot  o* 
the  queistion  gel  tin'  ane,  they're  sic  a 
price." 

"  Ay,  an'  though  we  had  the  siller,  it 
would  surely  be  an  awfu'  like  thing  to  buy 
a  cloak  'at  ye  could  never  wear?  " 

"  Ou,  but  I  dinna  want  ane." 

Jess  spoke  so  mournfully  that  Hendry 
became  enraged. 

"  It's  most  michty,"  he  said,  "  'at  ye 
would  gang  an'  set  yer  heart  on  sic  a  com- 
pletely useless  thing." 

"  I  hinna  set  my  heart  on't." 

"  Dinna    blether.     Ye've   been   speakin* 


A    CLOAK    WITH    BEADS.  7,3 

^boot  thae  eleven  and  a  bits  to  Leeby,  aff 
an'  on,  for  twa  month." 

Then  Hendry  hobbled  off  to  his  loom, 
■and  Jess  gave  me  a  look  which  meant  that 
men  are  trying  at  the  best,  once  you  are 
tied  to  them. 

The  cloaks  continued  to  turn  up  in  con- 
versation, and  Hendry  poured  scorn  upon 
Jess's  weakness,  telling  her  she  would  be 
better  employed  mending  his  trousers  than 
brooding  over  an  eleven  and  a  bit  that 
would  have  to  spend  its  life  in  a  drawer. 
An  outsider  would  have  thought  that  Hen- 
dry was  positively  cruel  to  Jess.  He 
seemed  to  take  a  delight  in  finding  that  she 
had  neglected  to  sew  a  button  on  his  waist- 
coat. His  real  joy,  however,  was  the 
knowledge  that  she  sewed  as  no  other 
woman  in  Thrums  could  sew.  Jess  had  a 
genius  for  making  new  garments  out  of 
old  ones,  and  Hendry  never  tired  of  gloat- 
ing over  her  cleverness  so  long  as  she  was 
not  present.  He  was  always  athirst  for 
fresh  proofs  of  it,  and  these  were  forthcom- 
ing every  day.  Sparing  were  his  words  of 
praise  to  herself,  but  in  the  evening  he  gen- 


74  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

erally  had  a  smoke  with  me  in  the  attic,  and 
then  the  thought  of  Jess  made  him  chuckle 
till  his  pipe  went  out.  When  he  smoked 
he  grunted  as  if  in  pain,  though  this  really 
added  to  the  enjoyment. 

"  It  doesna  matter,"  he  would  say  to  me, 
"  what  Jess  turns  her  hand  to,  she  can  mak 
ony  mortal  thing.  She  doesna  need  nae 
teachin';  na,  juist  gie  her  a  guid  look  at 
onything,  be  it  clothes,  or  furniture,  or  in 
the  bakin'  line,  it's  all  the  same  to  her. 
She'll  mak  another  exactly  like  it.  Ye 
canna  beat  her.  Her  bannocks  is  so  su- 
perior 'at  a  Tilliedrum  woman  took  to  her 
bed  after  tastin'  them,  an'  when  the  lawyer 
has  company  his  wife  gets  Jess  to  mak 
some  bannocks  for  her  an'  syne  pretends 
they're  her  ain  bakin'.  Ay,  there's  a  story 
aboot  that.  One  day  the  auld  doctor,  him 
'at's  deid,  was  at  his  tea  at  the  lawyer's,  an' 
says  the  guidwife,  '  Try  the  cakes,  Mr. 
Riach;  they're  my  own  bakin'.'  Weel,  he 
was  a  fearsomely  outspoken  man,  the  doc- 
tor, an'  nae  suner  had  he  the  bannock 
atween  his  teeth,  for  he  didna  stop  to 
swallow't,  than  he  says,  '  Mistress  Geddie,* 


A    CLOAK    WITH    BEADS.  75 

says  he,  '  I  wasna  born  on  a  Sabbath.  Na, 
na,  you're  no  the  first  grand  leddy  'at  has 
gien  me  bannocks  as  their  ain  bakin'  'at 
was  baked  and  fired  by  Jess  Logan,  her  'at's 
Hendry  McOumpha's  wife.'  Ay,  they  say 
the  lawyer's  wife  didna  ken  which  wy  to 
look,  she  was  that  mortified.  It's  jiiist 
the  same  wi'  sewin'.  There's  wys  o'  orna- 
mentin'  christenin'  robes  an'  the  like  'at's 
kent  to  naebody  but  hersel';  an'  as  for 
stockin's,  weel,  though  I've  seen  her  mak 
sae  mony,  she  amazes  me  yet.  I  mind  o' 
a  furry  waistcoat  I  aince  had.  Weel,  when 
it  was  fell  dune,  do  you  think  she  gae  it 
awa  to  some  gaen  aboot  body  [vagrant]  ? 
Na,  she  made  it  into  a  richt  neat  coat  to 
Jamie,  wha  was  a  bit  laddie  at  the  time. 
When  he  grew  out  o'  it'  she  made  a  slip- 
body  o't  for  hersel'.  Ay,  I  dinna  ken  a' 
the  different  things  it  became;  but  the  last 
time  I  saw  it  was  ben  in  the  room,  whaur 
she'd  covered  a  footstool  wi'  't.  Yes,  Jess 
is  the  cleverest  crittur  I  ever  saw.  Leeby's 
handy,  but  she's  no  a  patch  on  her  mother." 
I  sometimes  repeated  these  panegyrics  to 
Jess.     She   merely   smiled,    and   said   that 


76  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

men  haver  most  terrible  when  they  are  not 
at  their  work. 

Hendry  tried  Jess  sorely  over  the  cloaks^ 
and  a  time  came  when,  only  by  exasper- 
ating her,  could  he  get  her  to  reply  to  his 
sallies. 

"  Wha  wants  an  eleven  an'  a  bit?  "  she 
retorted  now  and  again. 

"  It's  you  'at  wants  it,"  said  Hendry^ 
promptly. 

"  Did  I  ever  say  I  wanted  ane?  What 
use  could  I  hae  for't?  " 

"  That's  the  queistion,"  said  Hendry. 
"  Ye  canna  gang  the  length  o'  the  door,  so 
ye  would  never  be  able  to  wear't." 

"  Ay,  weel,"  replied  Jess,  "  I'll  never  hae 
the  chance  o'  no  bein'  able  to  wear't,  for, 
hooever  muckle  I  wanted  it,  I  couldna 
get  it." 

Jess's  infatuation  had  in  time  the  efifect 
of  making  Hendry  uncomfortable.  In  tl.e 
attic  he  delivered  himself  of  such  senti- 
ments as  these: 

"  There's  nae  understandin'  a  woman. 
There's  Jess  'at  hasna  her  equal  for  clever- 
ness in  Thrums,  man  or  woman,  an'  yet 


A    CLOAK    WITH    BEADS.  77 

she's  fair  skeered  about  thae  cloaks.  Aince 
a  woman  sets  her  mind  on  something  to 
wear,  she's  mair  onreasonable  than  the 
stupidest  man.  Ay,  it  micht  mak  them 
humble  to  see  hoo  foolish  they  are  syne. 
No,  but  it  doesna  do't. 

"  If  it  was  a  thing  to  be  useful  noo,  I 
wouldna  think  the  same  o't,  but  she  could 
never  wear't.  She  kens  she  could  never 
wear't,  an'  yet  she's  juist  as  keen  to 
hae't. 

"  I  dinna  like  to  see  her  so  wantin'  a 
thing,  an'  no  able  to  get  it.  But  it's  an 
awfu'  sum,  eleven  an'  a  bit." 

He  tried  to  argue  with  her  further. 

"  If  ye  had  eleven  an'  a  bit  to  fling  awa," 
he  said,  "  ye  dinna  mean  to  tell  me  'at  ye 
would  buy  a  cloak  instead  o'  cloth  for  a 
gown,  or  flannel  for  petticoats,  or  some 
useful  thing?  " 

"  As  sure  as  death,"  said  Jess,  with  un- 
wonted vehemence,  "  if  a  cloak  I  could  get, 
a  cloak  I  would  buy." 

Hendry  came  up  to  tell  me  what  Jess  had 
said. 

"  It's  a   michty   infatooation,"    he   said, 


-jS  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  but  it  shows  hoo  her  heart's  set  on  thae 
cloaks." 

"  Aince  ye  had  it,"  he  argued  with  her, 
"  ye  would  juist  hae  to  lock  it  awa  in 
the  drawers.  Ye  would  never  even  be 
seein'  't." 

"  Ay,  would  I,"  said  Jess.  *'  I  would 
often  tak  it  oot  an'  look  at  it.  Ay,  an'  I 
would  aye  ken  it  was  there." 

"  But  naebody  w^ould  ken  ye  had  it  but 
yersel',"  said  Hendry,  who  had  a  vague 
notion  that  this  was  a  telling  objection. 

"  Would  they  no?  "  answered  Jess.  "  It 
would  be  a'  through  the  toon  afore  nicht." 

"  Weel,  all  I  can  say,"  said  Hendry,  "  is 
■'at  ye're  terrible  foolish  to  tak  the  want  o' 
sic  a  useless  thing  to  heart." 

"  Am  no  takkin'  't  to  heart,"  retorted 
Jess,  as  usual. 

Jess  needed  many  things  in  her  days  that 
poverty  kept  from  her  to  the  end,  and  the 
cloak  was  merely  a  luxury.  She  would 
soon  have  let  it  slip  by  as  something  un- 
attainable had  not  Hendry  encouraged  it 
to  rankle  in  her  mind.  I  cannot  say  when 
he  first  determined  that  Jess  should  have  a 


A    CLOAK    WITH    BEADS.  "jg 

cloak,  come  the  money  as  it  liked,  for  he 
was  too  ashamed  of  his  weakness  to  admit 
his  project  to  me.  I  remember,  however, 
his  saying  to  Jess  one  day: 

"  I'll  warrant  ye  could  mak  a  cloak  yer- 
sel'  the  marrows  o'  thae  eleven  and  a  bits, 
at  half  the  price?  " 

''  It  would  cost,"  said  Jess,  "  sax  an'  sax- 
pence,  exactly.  The  cloth  would  be  five 
shillin's,  an'  the  beads  a  shillin'.  I  have 
some  braid  'at  would  do  fine  for  the  front, 
but  the  buttons  would  be  saxpence." 

"  Ye're  sure  o'  that?" 

"  I  ken  fine,  for  I  got  Leeby  to  price  the 
things  in  the  shop." 

"  Ay,  but  it  maun  be  ill  to  shape  the 
cloaks  richt.  There  was  a  queer  cut  aboot 
that  ane  Peter  Dickie's  new  wife  had 
on." 

"  Queer  cut  or  no  queer  cut,"  said  Jess, 
"  I  took  the  shape  o'  My  Hobart's  ane  the 
day  she  was  here  at  her  tea,  an'  I  could  mak 
the  identical  o't  for  sax  and  sax." 

"  I  dinna  believe't,"  said  Hendry,  but 
when  he  and  I  were  alone  he  told  me, 
*'  There's  no  a  doubt  she  could  mak  it.     Ye 


So  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

heard  her  say  she  had  ta'en  the  shape?  Ay, 
that  shows  she's  rale  set  on  a  cloak." 

Had  Jess  known  that  Hendry  had  been 
saving  up  for  months  to  buy  her  material 
for  a  cloak,  she  would  not  have  let  him  do 
it.  vShe  could  not  know,  however,  for  all 
the  time  he  was  scraping  together  his 
pence,  he  kept  up  a  ring-ding-dang  about 
her  folly.  Hendry  gave  Jess  all  the  wages 
he  weaved,  except  threepence  weekly,  most 
of  which  went  in  tobacco  and  snuff.  The 
dulseman  had  perhaps  a  halfpenny  from 
him  in  the  fortnight.  I  noticed  that  for  a 
long  time  Hendry  neither  smoked  nor 
snuffed,  and  I  knew  that  for  years  he  had 
carried  a  shilling  in  his  snuff-mull.  The 
remainder  of  the  money  he  must  have  made 
by  extra  work  at  his  loom,  by  working 
harder,  for  he  could  scarcely  have  worked 
longer. 

It  was  one  day  shortly  before  Jamie's  re- 
turn to  Thrums  that  Jess  saw  Hendry  pass 
the  house  and  go  down  the  brae  when  he 
ought  to  have  come  in  to  his  brose.  She 
sat  at  the  window  watching  for  him.  and 
by  and  by  he  reappeared,  carrying  a  parcel 


THE    POWER    OF    BEAUTY.  St 

"  Whaur  on  earth  hae  ye  been?  "  she 
asked,  "an'  what's  that  you're  carryin'?" 

"  Did  ye  think  it  was  an  eleven  an'  a 
bit?  "  said  Hendry. 

"  No,  I  didna,"  answered  Jess  indig- 
nantly. 

Then  Hendry  slowly  undid  the  knots  of 
the  string  with  which  the  parcel  was  tied. 
He  took  off  the  brown  paper. 

"  There's  yer  cloth,"  he  said,  "  an'  here's 
one  an'  saxpence  for  the  beads  an'  the 
buttons." 

While  Jess  still  stared  he  followed  me 
ben  the  house. 

"  It's  a  terrible  haver,"  he  said,  apolo- 
getically, "  but  she  had  set  her  heart  on't.'' 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THE  POWER  OF  BEAUTY. 

One  evening  there  was  such  a  gathering 
at  the  pig-sty  that  Hendry  and  I  could  not 
get  a  board  to  lay  our  backs  against.  Cir- 
cuiiistances  had  pushed  Pv;te  Elshioner  iiito 


82  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

the  place  of  honor  that  belonged  by  right  of 
mental  powers  to  Tammas  Haggart,  and 
Tammas  was  sitting  rather  sullenly  on  the 
bucket,  boring  a  hole  in  the  pig  w4th  his 
sarcastic  eye.  Pete  was  passing  round  a 
card,  and  in  time  it  reached  me.  "  With 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  David  Alexander's  compli- 
ments," was  printed  on  it,  and  Pete  leered 
triumphantly  at  us  as  it  went  the  round. 

"  Weel,  what  think  ye?  "  he  asked,  w'ith 
a  pretense  at  modesty. 

"  Ou,"  said  T'nowhead,  looking  at  the 
others  like  one  who  asked  a  question,  "  ou, 
I  think;  ay,  ay," 

The  others  seemed  to  agree  with  him,  all 
tut  Tammas,  w'ho  did  not  care  to  tie  him- 
self down  to  an  opinion. 

"  Ou  ay,"  T'nowhead  continued  more 
confidently,  "  it  is  so,  deceededly." 

"  Ye'll  no  ken,"  said  Pete,  chuckhng, 
"  what  it  means?  " 

"  Na,"  the  farmer  admitted,  "  na,  I  canna 
say  I  exac'ly  ken  that." 

"  I  ken,  though,"  said  Tammas,  in  his 
keen  way. 

"Weel,    then,    what    is't?"    demanded 


THE    POWER    OF    BEAUTY.  85. 

Pete,  who  had  never  properly  come  under 
Tammas's  spell. 

"  I  ken,"  said  Tammas. 

"  Oot  wi'  't  then." 

"  I  dinna  say  it's  lyin'  on  my  tongue," 
Tammas  replied,  in  a  tone  of  reproof,  "  but 
if  ye'll  juist  speak  awa  aboot  some  other 
thing  for  a  meenute  or  twa,  I'll  tell  ye 
syne." 

Hendry  said  that  this  was  only  reason- 
able, but  we  could  think  of  no  subject  at 
the  moment,  so  we  only  stared  at  Tammas, 
and  waited. 

"  I  fathomed  it,"  he  said  at  last,  "  as  sune 
as  my  een  lichted  on't.  It's  one  o'  the  bit 
cards  'at  grand  fowk  slip  'aneath  doors 
when  they  mak  calls,  an'  their  friends  is  no 
in.     Ay,  that's  what  it  is." 

"  I  dinna  say  ye're  wrang,"  Pete  an- 
swered, a  little  annoyed.  "  Ay,  weel,  lads, 
of  course  David  Alexander's  oor  Dite  as 
we  called  'im,  Dite  Elshioner,  an'  that's 
his  wy  o'  signifyin'  to  us  'at  he's  mar- 
ried." 

''  I  assure  ye,"  said  Hendry,  "  Dite's 
doin'  the  thing  in  style." 


84  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  Ay,  we  said  that  when  the  card  ar- 
rived," Pete  admitted. 

"  I  kent,"  said  Tammas,  "  'at  that  was 
the  Avy  grand  fowk  did  when  they  got  mar- 
ried. I've  kent  it  a  lang  time.  It's  no 
nae  surprise  to  me." 

"  He's  been  lang  in  marryin',"  Hookey 
Crewe  said. 

"  He  was  thirty  at  Martinmas,"  said 
Pete. 

"  Thirty,  was  he? "  said  Hookey. 
*'  Man,  I'd  buried  twa  wives  by  the  time  I 
was  that  age,  an'  was  castin'  aboot  for  a 
third." 

"  I  mind  o'  them,"  Hendry  interposed. 

"  Ay,"  Hookey  said,  "  the  first  twa  was 
angels."  There  he  paused.  "  An'  so's 
the  third,"  he  added,  "  in  many  respects." 

"  But  wha's  the  woman  Dite's  taen?  " 
T'nowhead  or  some  one  of  the  more  silent 
members  of  the  company  asked  of  Pete. 

"  On,  we  dinna  ken  wha  she  is,"  an- 
swered Pete;  "but  she'll  be  some  Glasca 
lassie,  for  he's  there  noo.  Look,  lads,  look 
at  this.     He  sent  this  at  the  same  time;  it's 


THE    POWER    OF    BEAUTY.  85 

lier  picture."  Pete  produced  the  silhouette 
of  a  young  lady,  and  handed  it  round. 

"  What  do  ye  think?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  assure  ye!  "  said  Hookey. 

"  Sal,"  said  Hendry,  even  more  charmed, 
"  Dite's  done  weel." 

"  Lat's  see  her  in  a  better  licht,"  said 
Tammas. 

He  stood  up  and  examined  the  photo- 
graph narrowly,  while  Pete  fidgeted  with 
"his  legs. 

"  Fairish,"  said  Tammas  at  last.  "  Ou, 
ay;  no  what  I  would  selec'  mysel',  but  a 
dainty  bit  stocky!  Ou,  a  tasty  crittury!  ay, 
an'  she's  weel  in  order.  Lads,  she's  a  fine 
stoot  kimmer." 

"  I  conseeder  her  a  beauty,"  said  Pete 
aggressively. 

"  She's  a'  that,"  said  Hendry. 

"A'  I  can  say,"  said  Hookey,  "  is  'at  she 
taks  me  most  michty." 

"  She's  no  a  beauty,"  Tammas  main- 
tained; '' na,  she  doesna  juist  come  up  to 
that;  but  I  dinna  deny  but  what  she's  weel 
faured." 


86  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  What  faut  do  ye  find  wi'  her,  Tam- 
mas?  "  asked  Hendry. 

"  Conseedered  critically,"  said  Tammas, 
holding  the  photograph  at  arm's  length,  "  I 
would  say  'at  she — let's  see,  noo;  ay,  I 
would  say  'at  she's  defeecicnt  in  genteelity." 

"  Havers!  "  said  Pete. 

"  Na,"  said  Tammas,  "  no  when  con- 
seedered critically.  Ye  see  she's  drawn 
lauchin';  an'  the  genteel  thing's  no  to  lauch, 
but  juist  to  put  on  a  bit  smirk.  Ay,  that's 
the  genteel  thing." 

"  A  smile,  they  ca'  it,"  interposed  T'now- 
head. 

''  I  said  a  smile,"  continued  Tammas. 
"  Then  there's  her  waist.  I  say  naething 
agin  her  waist,  speakin'  in  the  ord'nar 
meanin' ;  but,  conseedered  critically,  there's 
a  want  o'  suppleness,  as  ye  micht  say,  aboot 
it.     Ay.  it  doesna  compare  wi'  the  waist 

o'    ."     (Here    Tammas    mentioned    a 

young  lady  who  had  recently  married  into 
a  local  county  family.) 

"  That  was  a  pretty  tiddy,"  said  Hookey. 
"  On,  losh,  ay!  it  made  me  a  kind  o'  queery 
to  look  at  her," 


THE    POWER    OF    BEAUTY.  87 

"  Ye're  ower  kyow-owy  [particular], 
Tammas,"  said  Pete. 

"  I  may  be,  Pete,"  Tammas  admitted; 
*'  but  I  maun  say  I'm  fond  o'  a  bonny- 
looken'  wuman,  an'  no  aisy  to  please:  na, 
I'm  nat'rally  ane  o'  the  critical  kind." 

"  It's  extror'nar,"  said  T'nowhead, 
*'  what  a  poo'er  beauty  has.  I  mind  when 
I  was  a  callant  readin'  aboot  Mary  Queen  o' 
Scots  till  I  was  fair  mad,  lads;  yes,  I  was 
fair  mad  at  her  bein'  deid.  Ou,  I  could 
hardly  sleep  at  nichts  for  thinkin'  o'  her." 

"  Mary  was  spunky  as  weel  as  a  beauty," 
said  Hookey,  "  an'  that's  the  kind  I  like. 
Lads,  what  a  persuasive  tid  she  was!  " 

"  She  got  roond  the  men,"  said  Hendry, 
""  ay,  she  turned  them  roond  her  finger. 
That's  the  warst  o'  thae  beauties." 

"  I  dinna  gainsay,"  said  T'nowhead, 
^' but  what  thtie  was  a  little  o'  the  deevil 
in  Mary,  the  crittur." 

Here  T'nowhead  chuckled,  and  then 
looked  scared. 

"  What  Mary  needed,"  said  Tammas, 
^'  was  a  strong  man  to  manage  her." 

"  Ay,  man,  but  it's  ill  to  manage  thae 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 


beauties.  They  gie  ye  a  glint  o'  their  een^ 
an'  syne  whaur  are  ye?  " 

"  Ah,  they  can  be  managed,"  said  Tam- 
mas,  complacentl) .  "  There's  naebody 
nat'rally  safter  wi'  a  pretty  stocky  o'  a  bit 
wumany  than  mysel';  but  for  a'  that,  if  I 
had  been  ]\Iary's  man  I  would  hae  stood 
nane  o'  her  tantrums.  '  Na,  Mary,  my 
lass,'  I  would  hae  said,  *  this  winna  do;  iia, 
na,  ye're  a  bonny  body,  but  ye  maun  mind 
'at  man's  the  superior;  ay,  man's  the  lord  o' 
creation,  an'  so  ye  maun  juist  sing  sma'.^ 
That's  hoo  I  would  hae  managed  Mary,  the 
speerity  crittur  'at  she  was." 

"  Ye  would  hae  haen  yer  wark  cut  oot 
for  ye,  Tammas." 

*'  Ilka  mornin',"  pursued  Tammas,  "  1 
would  hae  said  to  her,  '  Mary,'  I  would  hae 
said,  '  wha's  to  wear  thae  breeks  the  day, 
you  or  me? '  Ay,  syne  I  would  hae 
ordered  her  to  kindle  the  fire,  or  if  I  had 
been  the  king,  of  course  I  would  hae 
telt  her  instead  to  ring  the  bell  an'  hae 
the  cloth  laid  for  the  breakfast.  Ay, 
that's  the  wy  to  mak  the  like  o'  2\Iary 
respec'  ye." 


A    MAGNUM    OPUS.  89 

Pete  and  I  left  them  talking.     He  had 

MTitten  a  letter  to  David  Alexander,  and 
wanted  me  to  "  back  "  it. 


CHAPTER  X. 

A  MAGNUM   OPUS. 

Two  Bibles,  a  volume  of  sermons  by  the 
learned  Dr.  Isaac  Barrow,  a  few  numbers 
of  the  CJicap  Magazine,  that  had  strayed 
from  Dunfermline,  and  a  "  Pilgrim's  Prog- 
ress," were  the  works  that  lay  conspicuous 
ben  in  the  room.  Hendry  had  also  a  copy 
-of  Burns,  whom  he  always  quoted  in  the 
complete  poem,  and  a  collection  of  legends 
in  song  and  prose,  that  Leeby  kept  out  of 
sight  in  a  drawer. 

The  weight  of  my  box  of  books  was  a 
■subject  Hendry  was  very  willing  to  shake 
his  head  over,  but  he  never  showed  any  de- 
sire to  take  off  the  lid.  Jess,  however,  was 
more  curious;  indeed,  she  would  have  been 
an  omnivorous  devourer  of  books  had  it  not 
been  for  her  conviction  that  reading  was 


90  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

idling.  Until  I  found  her  out  she  never 
allowed  to  me  that  Leeby  brought  her  my 
books,  one  at  a  time.  Some  of  them  were 
novels,  and  Jess  took  about  ten  minutes  to 
each.  She  confessed  that  what  she  read 
was  only  the  last  chapter,  owing  to  a  con- 
suming curiosity  to  know  whether  she 
"  got  him." 

She  read  all  the  London  part,  however, 
of  "  The  Heart  of  Midlothian,''  because 
London  was  where  Jamie  lived,  and  she  and 
I  had  a  discussion  about  it  which  ended  in 
her  remembering  that  Thrums  once  had  an 
author  of  its  own. 

"  Bring  oot  the  book,"  she  said  to  Leeby, 
"  it  was  put  awa  i'  the  bottom  drawer  ben 
i'  the  room  sax  year  syne,  an'  I  sepad  it's 
there  yet." 

Leeliy  came  but  with  a  faded  little  book, 
the  title  already  rubbed  from  its  shabby 
brown  covers.  I  opened  it,  and  then,  all  at 
once,  I  saw  before  me  again  the  man  who 
wrote  and  printed  it  and  died.  He  came 
hobbling  up  the  brae,  so  bent  that  his  body 
was  almost  at  right  angles  to  his  legs,  and 
his  broken  silk  hat  was  carefully  brushed  as 


A    MAGNUM    OPUS.  9I 

in  the  days  when  Janet,  his  sister,  Hved. 
There  he  stood  at  the  top  of  the  brae, 
panting. 

I  was  but  a  boy  when  Jimsy  Duthie 
turned  the  corner  of  the  brae  for  the  last 
time,  with  a  score  of  mourners  behind  him. 
W^hile  I  knew  him  there  was  no  Janet  to 
run  to  the  door  to  see  if  he  was  coming. 
So  occupied  was  Jimsy  with  the  great  af- 
fair of  his  Hfe,  which  was  brewing  for  thirty 
years,  that  his  neighbors  saw  how  he  missed 
his  sister  better  than  he  realized  it  himself. 
Only  his  hat  was  no  longer  carefully 
brushed,  and  his  coat  hung  awry,  and  there 
Avas  sometimes  little  reason  why  he  should 
go  home  to  dinner.  It  is  for  the  sake  of 
Janet  who  adored  him  that  we  should  re- 
member Jimsy  in  the  days  before  she  died. 

Jimsy  was  a  poet,  and  for  the  space  of 
thirty  years  he  lived  in  a  great  epic  on  the 
Millennium.  This  is  the  book  presented  to 
me  by  Jess,  that  lies  so  quietly  on  my  top- 
most shelf  now.  Open  it,  however,  and 
you  will  find  that  the  work  is  entitled  "  The 
Millennium:  an  Epic  Poem,  in  Twelve 
Eooks:  by  James  Duthie."     In  the  little 


92  A    WINDOW    IX    THRUMS. 

hole  in  his  wall  where  Jimsy  kept  his  books 
there  was,  I  have  no  doubt — for  his  effects 
were  rouped  before  I  knew  him  except  by- 
name— a  well-read  copy  of  "  Paradise 
Lost."  Some  people  would  smile,  perhaps, 
if  they  read  the  two  epics  side  by  side,  and 
others  might  sigh,  for  there  is  a  great  deal 
in  "  The  Millennium  "  that  Milton  could 
take  credit  for.  Jimsy  had  educated  him- 
self, after  the  idea  of  writing  something"  that 
the  world  would  not  willingly  let  die  came 
to  him,  and  he  began  his  book  before  his 
education  was  complete.  So  far  as  I  know, 
he  never  wrote  a  line  that  had  not  to  do 
with  "  The  Millennium."  He  was  ever  a 
man  sparing  of  his  plural  tenses,  and  "  The 
Millennium"  says  "has"  for  "have";  a 
vain  word,  indeed,  which  Thrums  would 
only  have  permitted  as  a  poetical  license. 
The  one  original  character  in  the  poem  is 
the  devil,  of  whom  Jimsy  gives  a  picture 
that  is  startling  and  graphic,  and  received 
the  approval  of  the  Auld  Licht  minister. 

By  trade  Jimsy  was  a  printer — a  master- 
printer  with  no  one  under  him,  and  he 
printed  and  bound  his  book,  ten  copies  in 


A    MAGNUM    OPUS.  93. 

all,  as  well  as  wrote  it.  To  print  the  poem 
took  him,  I  dare  say,  nearly  as  long  as  to 
write  it,  and  he  set  up  the  pages  as  they 
were  written,  one  by  one.  The  book  is  only 
printed  on  one  side  of  the  leaf,  and  each  page 
was  produced  separately  like  a  little  hand- 
bill. Those  who  may  pick  up  the  book — 
but  who  will  care  to  do  so? — will  think  that 
the  author  or  his  printer  could  not  spell — 
but  they  would  not  do  Jimsy  that  injustice 
if  they  knew  the  circumstances  in  which  it 
was  produced.  He  had  but  a  small  stock 
of  type,  and,  on  many  occasions,  he  ran  out 
of  a  letter.  The  letter  e  tried  him  sorely. 
Those  who  knew  him  best  say  that  he  tried 
to  think  of  words  without  an  e  in  them,  but 
when  he  was  bafBed  he  had  to  use  a  little  a 
or  an  o  instead.  He  could  print  correctly, 
but  in  the  book  there  are  a  good  many- 
capital  letters  in  the  middle  of  words,  and 
sometimes  there  is  a  note  of  interrogation 
after  "  alas  "  or  "  Woes  me,"  because  all 
the  notes  of  exclamation  had  been  used  up. 
Jimsy  never  cared  to  speak  about  his 
great  poem  even  to  his  closest  friends,  but 
Janet  told  how  he  read  it  out  to  her,  and- 


94  A    WINDOW    IX    THRUMS. 

that  his  whole  body  trembled  with  excite- 
ment while  he  raised  his  eyes  to  Heaven  as 
if  asking  for  inspiration  that  would  enable 
his  voice  to  do  justice  to  his  writing.  So 
grand  it  was,  said  Janet,  that  her  stocking 
would  slip  from  her  fingers  as  he  read — and 
Janet's  stockings,  that  she  was  always  knit- 
ting when  not  otherwise  engaged,  did  not 
slip  from  her  hands  readily.  After  her 
death  he  was  heard  by  his  neighbors  re- 
citing the  poem  to  himself,  generally  with 
his  door  locked.  He  is  said  to  have  de- 
claimed part  of  it  one  still  evening  from  the 
top  of  the  commonty,  like  one  addressing 
a  multitude,  and  the  idlers  who  had  crept 
lip  to  jeer  at  him  fell  back  when  they  saw  his 
iace.  He  walked  through  them,  they  told, 
Avith  his  old  body  straight  once  more,  and 
a  queer  light  playing  on  his  face.  His  lips 
are  moving  as  I  see  him  turning  the  cor- 
ner of  the  brae.  So  he  passed  from  youth 
to  old  age,  and  all  his  life  seemed  a  dream, 
except  that  j)art  of  it  in  which  he  was  writ- 
ing, or  prnTting,  or  stitching,  or  binding 
"  The  ^Millennium."  At  last  the  work  was 
completed. 


A    MAGNUM    OPUS.  95 

"  It  is  finished,"  he  printed  at  the  end  of 
the  last  book.  "  The  task  of  thirty  years- 
is  over." 

It  is  indeed  over.  No  one  ever  read 
"  The  Millennium."  I  am  not  going  to 
sentimentalize  over  my  copy,  for  how  much 
of  it  have  I  read?  But  neither  shall  I  say 
that  it  was  written  to  no  end. 

You  may  care  to  know  the  last  of  Jimsy, 
though  in  one  sense  he  was  blotted  out 
when  the  last  copy  was  bound.  He  had 
saved  one  hundred  pounds  by  that  time, 
and  being  now  neither  able  to  work  nor  to 
live  alone,  his  friends  cast  about  for  a  home 
for  his  remaining  years.  He  was  very 
spent  and  feeble,  yet  he  had  the  fear  that  he 
might  be  still  alive  when  all  his  money  was 
gone.  After  that  was  the  workhouse.  He 
covered  sheets  of  paper  with  calculations, 
about  how  long  the  hundred  pounds  would 
last  if  he  gave  away  for  board  and  lodgings 
ten  shillings,  nine  shillings,  seven  and  six- 
pence a  week.  At  last,  with  sore  misgiv- 
ings, he  went  to  live  with  a  family  who  took 
him  for  eight  shillings.  Less  than  a  month- 
afterward  he  died. 


^6  A    WINDOW    IX    THRUMS. 

CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  GHOST  CRADLE. 

Our  dinner  hour  was  twelve  o'clock,  and 
Hendry,  for  a  not  incomprehensible  reason, 
called  this  meal  his  brose.  Frequently, 
however,  while  I  was  there  to  share  the  ex- 
pense, broth  was  put  on  the  table,  with  beef 
to  follow  in  clean  plates,  much  to  Hendry's 
distress,  for  the  comfortable  and  usual  prac- 
tice was  to  eat  the  beef  from  the  broth 
plates.  Jess,  however,  having  three  whole 
ivhite  plates  and  two  cracked  ones,  insisted 
on  the  meals  being  taken  genteelly,  and  her 
husband,  with  a  look  at  me,  gave  way. 

"  Half  a  pound  o'  boiling  beef,  an'  a 
penny  bone,"  was  Leeby's  almost  invariable 
order  when  she  dealt  with  the  flesher,  and 
Jess  had  always  neighbors  poorer  than  her- 
self who  got  a  plateful  of  the  broth.  She 
never  had  anything  without  remembering 
some  old  body  would  be  the  better  of  a  lit- 
tle of  it. 

Amonsf   those    who    must    have    missed 


THE    GHOST    CRADLE.  97 

Jess  sadly  after  she  was  gone  was  Johnny 
Proctor,  a  half-witted  man  who,  because  he 
could  not  work,  remained  straight  at  a  time 
of  life  when  most  weavers,  male  and  female, 
had  lost  some  inches  of  their  stature.  For 
as  far  back  as  my  memory  goes,  Johnny  had 
got  his  brose  three  times  a  week  from  Jess,, 
his  custom  being  to  walk  in  without  cere- 
mony, and,  drawing  a  stool  to  the  table,  tell 
Leeby  that  he  was  now  ready.  One  day, 
however,  when  I  was  in  the  garden  put- 
ting some  rings  on  a  fishing-wand,  Johnny 
pushed  by  me,  with  no  sign  of  recognition 
on  his  face.  I  addressed  him,  and,  after 
pausing  undecidedly,  he  ignored  me. 
When  he  came  to  the  door,  instead  of  fling- 
ing it  open  and  walking  in,  he  knocked 
primly,  which  surprised  me  so  much  that  I 
followed  him. 

"  Is  this  whaur  Mistress  McQumpha 
lives?  "  he  asked,  when  Leeby,  with  a  face 
ready  to  receive  the  minister  himself,  came 
at  length  to  the  door. 

I  knew  that  the  gentility  of  the  knock 
had  taken  both  her  and  her  mother 
aback. 


^8  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  Hoots,  Johnny,"  said  Leeby,  "  what 
haver's  this?     Come  awa  in." 

Johnny  seemed  annoyed. 

"  Is  this  whaur  Mistress  McQumpha 
lives?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Say  'at  it  is,"  cried  Jess,  who  was 
•quicker  in  the  uptake  than  her  daughter. 

'*  Of  course  this  is  whaur  Mistress  Mc- 
Qumpha Hves,"  Leeby  then  said,  "  as  weel 
ye  ken,  for  ye  had  yer  dinner  here  no  twa 
hours  syne." 

"  Then,"  said  Johnny,  "  Mistress  Tully's 
compHments  to  her,  and  would  she  kindly 
lend  the  christenin'  robe,  an'  also  the  tea- 
tray,  if  the  same  be  na  needed?  " 

Having  delivered  his  message  as  instruct- 
ed, Johnny  consented  to  sit  down  until  the 
famous  christening  robe  and  the  tray  were 
ready,  but  he  would  not  talk,  for  that  was 
not  in  the  bond.  Jess's  sweet  face  beamed 
over  the  compliment  Mrs.  Tully,  known  on 
ordinary  occasions  as  Jean  McTaggart,  had 
paid  her,  and,  after  Johnny  had  departed 
laden,  she  told  me  how  the  tray,  which  had 
a  great  bump  in  the  middle,  came  into  her 
possession. 


THE    GHOST    CRADLE.  99 

"  Ye've  often  heard  me  speak  aboot  the 
time  when  I  was  a  lassie  workin'  at  the 
farm  o'  the  Bog?  Ay,  that  was  afore  me 
an'  Hendry  kent  ane  anither,  an'  I  was  as 
fleet  on  my  feet  in  thae  days  as  Leeby  is 
noo.  It  was  Sam'l  Fletcher  'at  was  the 
farmer,  but  he  maun  hae  been  gone  afore 
you  was  mair  than  born.  Mebbe,  though, 
ye  ken  'at  he  was  a  terrible  invalid,  an'  for 
the  hinmost  years  o'  his  life  he  sat  in  a 
muckle  chair  nicht  an'  day.  Ay,  when  I 
took  his  denner  to  'im,  on  that  very  tray  'at 
Johnny  cam  for,  I  little  thocht  'at,  by  and 
by,  I  would  be  sae  keepit  in  a  chair  mysel'. 

"  But  the  thinkin'  o'  Sam'l  Fletcher's 
case  is  ane  o'  the  things  'at  maks  me  awfu' 
thankfu'  for  the  lenient  wy  the  Lord  has 
aye  dealt  wi'  me;  for  Sam'l  couldna  move 
oot  o'  the  chair,  aye  sleepin'  in't  at  nicht, 
an'  I  can  come  an'  gang  between  mine  an' 
my  bed.  Mebbe  ye  think  I'm  no  much 
better  ofi  than  Sam'l,  but  that's  a  terrible 
mistak.  What  a  glory  it  would  hae  been 
to  him  if  he  could  hae  gone  frae  one  end  o' 
the  kitchen  to  the  ither.  Ay,  I'm  sure  o' 
that. 


lOO  A    WINDOW    IN    THRU-MS- 

"  Sam'l  was  rale  weel  liked,  for  he  was 
saft-spoken  to  everybody,  an'  fond  o'  ha'en 
a  gossip  wi'  ony  ane  'at  was  aboot  the 
farm.  We  didna  care  sae  muckle  for  the 
wife,  Eppie  Lownie,  for  she  managed  the 
farm,  an'  she  was  fell  hard  an'  terrible  re- 
served we  thocht,  no  even  likin'  ony  body 
to  get  friendly  wi'  the  mester,  as  we  called 
Sam'l.     Ay,  we  made  a  richt  mistak." 

As  I  had  heard  frequently  of  this  queer, 
mournful  mistake  made  by  those  who  con- 
sidered Sam'l  unfortunate  in  his  wife,  I 
turned  Jess  on  to  the  main  line  of  her  story. 

"  It  was  the  ghost  cradle,  as  they  named 
it,  'at  I  meant  to  tell  ye  aboot.  The  Bog 
was  a  bigger  farm  in  thae  days  than  noo, 
but  I  daursay  it  has  the  new  steadin'  yet. 
Ay.  it  winna  be  new  noo,  but  at  the  time 
there  was  sic  a  commotion  aboot  the  ghost 
cradle,  they  were  juist  puttin'  the  new 
steadin'  up.  There  was  sax  or  mair  masons 
at  it,  wi'  the  lads  on  the  farm  helpin',  an' 
as  they  were  all  sleepin'  at  the  farm,  there 
was  great  stir  aboot  the  place.  I  couldna 
tell  ye  hoo  the  story  aboot  the  farm's  bein' 
haunted  rose,  to  begin  wi',  but  I  mind  fine 


THE    GHOST    CRADLE.  lOI 

hoo  fleid  I  was;  ay,  an'  no  only  me,  but 
every  man-body  an'  woman-body  on  the 
farm.  It  was  aye  late  'at  the  soond  began, 
an'  we  never  saw  naething,  we  juist  heard 
it.  The  masons  said  they  wouldna  hae 
been  sae  fleid  if  they  could  hae  seen't,  but 
it  never  was  seen.  It  had  the  soond  o'  a 
cradle  rockin',  an'  when  we  lay  in  our  beds 
hearkenin',  it  grew  louder  an'  louder  till  it 
wasna  to  be  borne,  an'  the  women-folk  fair 
skirled  wi'  fear.  The  mester  was  intimate 
wi'  a'  the  stories  aboot  ghosts  an'  water- 
kelpies  an'  sic  like,  an'  we  couldna  help  lis- 
tenin'  to  them.  But  he  aye  said  'at  ghosts 
'at  was  juist  heard  an'  no  seen  was  the  maist 
fearsome  an'  wicked.  For  all  there  was  sic 
fear  ower  the  hale  farm-toon  'at  naebody 
would  gang  ower  the  door  alane  after  the 
gloamin'  cam,  the  mester  said  he  wasna 
fleid  to  sleep  i'  the  kitchen  by  'imsel'.  We 
thocht  it  richt  brave  o'  'im,  for  ye  se^  he 
was  as  helpless  as  a  bairn. 

''  Richt  queer  stories  rose  aboot  the 
cradle,  an'  traveled  to  the  ither  farms.  The 
wife  didna  like  them  ava,  for  it  was  said  'at 
there  maun  hae  been  some  awfu'  murder  o' 


102  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

an  infant  on  the  farm,  or  we  vvouldna  be 
haunted  by  a  cradle.  Syne  folk  began  to 
mind  'at  there  had  been  nae  bairns  born  on 
the  farm  as  far  back  as  onybody  kent,  an' 
it  was  said  'at  some  lang  syne  crime  had 
made  the  Bog  cursed. 

"  Dinna  think  'at  we  juist  lay  in  our  beds 
or  sat  round  the  fire  shakkin'  wi'  fear. 
Everything  'at  could  be  dune  was  dune. 
In  the  daytime,  when  naething  was  heard, 
the  masons  explored  a'  place  i'  the  farm,  in 
the  hope  o'  findin'  oot  'at  the  sound  was 
caused  by  sic  a  thing  as  the  wind  playin'  on 
the  wood  in  the  garret.  Even  at  nichts,. 
when  they  couldna  sleep  wi'  the  soond,  I've 
kent  them  rise  in  a  body  an'  gang  all  ower 
the  house  wi'  lichts.  I've  seen  them 
climbin'  on  the  new  steadin',  crawlin'  alang 
the  rafters  haudin'  their  cruizey  lamps  afore 
them,  an'  us  women-bodies  shiverin'  wi'  fear 
at  the  door.  It  was  on  ane  o'  thae  nichts 
'at  a  mason  fell  off  the  rafters  an'  broke  his 
leg.  Weel,  sic  a  state  was  the  men  in  to 
find  oot  what  it  was  'at  was  terrifyin'  them 
sae  muckle,  'at  the  rest  o'  them  climbed  up 
at    aince    to    the    place    he'd    fallen    frae, 


THE    GHOST    CRADLE.  IO3 

thinkin'  there  was  something  there  'at  had 
fleid  'im.  But  though  they  crawled  back 
an'  forrit  there  was  naething  ava. 

"  The  rockin'  was  louder,  we  thocht, 
after  that  nicht,  an'  syne  the  men  said  it 
would  go  on  till  somebody  was  killed. 
That  idea  took  a  richt  haud  o'  them,  an' 
twa  ran  awa  back  to  Tilliedrum,  whaur  they 
liad  come  frae.  They  gaed  thegither  i'  the 
middle  o'  the  nicht,  an'  it  was  thocht  next 
mornin'  'at  the  ghost  had  spirited  them 
awa. 

"  Ye  couldna  conceive  hoo  low-spirited 
we  all  were  after  the  masons  had  gien  up 
hope  o'  findin'  a  nat'ral  cause  for  the  soond. 
At  ord'nar  times  there's  no  ony  mair  licht- 
some  place  than  a  farm  after  the  men  hae 
come  in  to  their  supper,  but  at  the  Bog  we 
sat  dour  an'  sullen ;  an'  there  wasna  a  mason 
or  a  farm  servant  'at  would  gang  by  'imsel' 
as  far  as  the  end  o'  the  hoose  whaur  the 
peats  was  keepit.  The  mistress  maun  hae 
saved  some  siller  that  spring  through  the 
Egyptians  [gypsies]  keepin'  awa,  for  the 
farm  had  got  sic  an  ill  name,  'at  nae  tinkler 
"vvould  come  near't  at  nicht.     The  tailor- 


104  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

man  an'  his  laddie,  'at  should  hae  bidden  wi'' 
us  to  sew  things  for  the  men,  walkit  off  fair 
skeered  one  mornin',  an'  settled  doon  at  the 
farm  o'  Cragiebuckle  fower  mile  awa,  whaur 
our  lads  had  to  gae  to  them.  Ay,  I  mind 
the  tailor's  sendin'  the  laddie  for  the  money 
owin'  him;  he  hadna  the  speerit  to  venture 
again  within  soond  o'  the  cradle  'imsel'. 
The  men  on  the  farm,  though,  couldna 
blame  'im  for  that.  They  were  juist  as 
fiichtered  themsel's,  an  mony  a  time  I  saw 
them  hittin'  the  dogs  for  whinin'  at  the 
soond.  The  wy  the  dogs  took  on  was  fear- 
some in  itsel',  for  they  seemed  to  ken,  aye 
when  nicht  cam  on,  'at  the  rockin'  would 
sune  begin,  an'  if  they  werena  chained  they 
cam  runnin'  to  the  hoose.  I  hae  heard  the 
hale  glen  fu',  as  ye  micht  say,  wi'  the  whinin' 
o'  dogs,  for  the  dogs  on  the  other  farms 
took  up  the  cry,  an'  in  a  glen  ye  can  hear 
soonds  terrible  far  awa  at  nicht. 

"  As  lang  as  we  sat  i'  the  kitchen,  lis- 
tenin'  to  what  the  mester  had  to  say  aboot 
the  ghosts  in  his  young  days,  the  cradle 
would  be  still,  but  we  were  nae  suner  awa 
speeritless  to  our  beds  than  it  began,  an' 


THE    GHOST    CRADLE.  IO5 

sometimes  it  lasted  till  mornin'.  We  lookit 
upon  the  mester  almost  \vi'  awe,  sittin' 
there  sae  helpless  in  his  chair,  an'  no  fleid  to 
be  left  alane.  He  had  lang  white  hair,  an' 
a  saft  bonny  face  'at  would  hae  made  'im 
respeckit  by  onybody,  an'  aye  when  we 
speired  if  he  wasna  fleid  to  be  left  alane.  he 
said.  '  Them  'at  has  a  clear  conscience  has 
naething  to  fear  frae  ghosts.' 

"  There  was  some  'at  said  the  curse 
Avould  never  leave  the  farm  till  the  house 
was  razed  to  the  ground,  an'  it's  the  truth 
I'm  tellin'  ye  when  I  say  there  was  talk 
among  the  men  aboot  settin't  on  fire.  The 
mester  was  richt  stern  when  he  heard  o' 
that,  quotin'  frae  Scripture  in  a  solemn  wy 
'at  abashed  the  masons,  but  he  said  'at  in 
his  opeenion  there  was  a  bairn  buried  on 
the  farm,  an'  till  it  was  found  the  cradle 
would  go  on  rockin'.  After  that  the 
masons  dug  in  a  lot  o'  places  lookin'  for  the 
body,  an'  they  found  some  queer  things, 
too,  but  never  nae  sign  o'  a  murdered 
litlin'.  Ay,  I  dinna  ken  what  would  hae 
happened  if  the  commotion  had  gaen  on 
muckle  lansrer.     One  thinsr  I'm  sure  o'  is 


I06  A    V.'INDOW    IN     THRUMS. 

'at  the  mistress  would  hae  gaen  daft,  she 
took  it  a'  sae  terrible  to  heart. 

"  I  lauch  at  it  noo,  but  I  tell  ye  I  used 
to  tak  my  heart  to  my  bed  in  my  mooth. 
If  ye  hinna  heard  the  story,  I  dinna  think 
ye'll  be  able  to  guess  what  the  ghost  cradle 
was." 

I  said  I  had  been  trying  to  think  what 
the  tray  had  to  do  with  it. 

"  It  had  everything  to  do  wi'  't,"  said 
Jess;  "  an'  if  the  masons  had  kent  hoo  that 
cradle  was  rockit,  I  think  they  would  hae 
killed  the  mester.  It  was  Eppie  'at  found 
oot,  an'  she  telt  naebody  but  me,  though 
mony  a  ane  kens  noo.  I  see  ye  canna  mak 
it  oot  yet,  so  I'll  tell  ye  what  the  cradle  was. 
The  tray  was  keepit  against  the  kitchen 
wall  near  the  mester,  an'  he  played  on't  wi' 
his  foot.  He  made  it  gang  bump  bump, 
an'  the  soond  was  juist  like  a  cradle  rockin'. 
Ye  could  hardly  believe  sic  a  thing  would 
hae  made  that  din,  but  it  did,  an'  ye  see  we 
lay  in  our  beds  hearkenin'  for't.  Ay,  when 
Eppie  telt  me,  I  could  scarce  believe  'at  that 
guid,  devout-lookin'  man  could  hae  been 
sae  wicked.     Ye  see,  when  he  found  hoa 


THE    TRAGEDY    OF    A    WIFE.  107 

terrified  we  a'  were,  he  keppit  it  up.  The 
Avy  Eppie  found  out  i'  the  tail  o'  the  day 
was  by  wonderin'  at  'im  sleepin'  sae  muckle 
in  the  daytime.  He  did  that  so  as  to  be 
fresh  for  his  sport  at  nicht.  What  a  fine 
releegious  man  we  thocht  'im,  too! 

"  Eppie  couldna  bear  the  very  sicht  o'  the 
tray  after  that,  an'  she  telt  me  to  break  it 
up;  but  I  keepit  it,  ye  see.  The  lump  i'  the 
middle's  the  mark,  as  ye  may  say,  o'  the 
auld  man's  foot." 


CHAPTER   XH. 

THE  TRAGEDY  OF  A  WIFE. 

Were  Jess  still  alive  to  tell  the  life-story 
of  Sam'l  Fletcher  and  his  wife,  you  could 
not  hear  it  and  sit  still.  The  ghost  cradle 
is  but  a  page  from  the  black  history  of  a 
woman  who  married,  to  be  blotted  out 
from  that  hour.  One  case  of  the  kind  I 
myself  have  known,  of  a  woman  so  good 
mated  to  a  man  so  selfish  that  I  cannot 
think  of  her  even  now  with  a  steady  mouth. 


Io8  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

Hers  was  the  tragedy  of  living  on,  more 
mournful  than  the  tragedy  that  kills.  In 
Thrums  the  weavers  spoke  of  "  lousing  " 
from  their  looms,  removing  the  chains,  and 
there  is  something  woeful  in  that.  But 
pity  poor  Nancy  Coutts,  who  took  her 
chains  to  bed  with  her. 

Nanny  was  buried  a  month  or  more  be- 
fore I  came  to  the  house  on  the  brae,  and 
even  in  Thrums  the  dead  are  seldom  re- 
membered for  so  long  a  time  as  that.  But 
it  was  only  after  Sanders  was  left  alone  that 
we  learned  what  a  woman  she  had  been,  and 
how  basely  we  had  wronged  her.  She  was 
an  angel,  Sanders  went  about  whining, 
when  he  had  no  longer  a  woman  to  illtreat. 
He  had  this  sentimental  way  with  him,  but 
it  lost  its  effect  after  we  knew  the  man. 

"  A  deevil  couldna  hae  deserved  waur 
treatment,"  Tammas  Haggart  said  to  him; 
"  gang  oot  o'  my  sicht,  man." 

"  I'll  blame  mysel'  till  I  die,"  Jess  said, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  for  no  under- 
standin'  puir  Nanny  better." 

So  Nanny  got  sympathy  at  last,  but  not 
until  her  forgiving  soul  had  left  her  tortured 


THE    TRAGEDY    OF    A    WIFE.  lOp:^ 

body.  There  was  many  a  kindly  heart  in 
Thrums  that  would  have  gone  out  to  her  in 
her  lifetime,  but  we  could  not  have  loved 
her  without  upbraiding  him,  and  she  would 
not  buy  sympathy  at  the  price.  \Miat  a 
little  story  it  is,  and  how  few  words  are  re- 
quired to  tell  it!  He  was  a  bad  husband  to 
her,  and  she  kept  it  secret.  That  is 
Nanny's  life  summed  up.  It  is  all  that  was- 
left  behind  when  her  coffin  went  down  the 
brae.  Did  she  love  him  to  the  end,  or  was 
she  only  doing  what  she  thought  her  duty? 
It  is  not  for  me  even  to  guess.  A  good 
woman  who  suffers  is  altogether  beyond 
man's  reckoning.  To  such  heights  of  self- 
sacrifice  we  cannot  rise.  It  crushes  us;  it 
ought  to  crush  us  on  to  our  knees.  For 
us  who  saw  Nanny,  infirm,  shrunken,  and 
so  weary,  yet  a  type  of  the  noblest  woman- 
hood, suffering  for  years,  and  misunder- 
stood her  to  the  end,  what  expiation  can 
there  be?  I  do  not  want  to  storm  at  the 
man  who  made  her  life  so  burdensome. 
Too  many  years  have  passed  for  that,  nor 
would  Nanny  take  it  kindly  if  I  called  her 
man  names. 


no  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

Sanders  worked  little  after  his  marriage. 
He  had  a  sore  back,  he  said,  which  became 
a  torture  if  he  leaned  forward  at  his  loom. 
What  truth  there  was  in  this  I  cannot  say, 
but  not  every  weaver  in  Thrums  could 
"  louse  "  when  his  back  grew  sore.  Nanny 
went  to  the  loom  in  his  place,  filling  as  well 
as  weaving,  and  he  walked  about,  dressed 
better  than  the  common,  and  with  cheerful 
words  for  those  who  had  time  to  listen. 
Nanny  got  no  approval  even  for  doing  his 
work  as  well  as  her  own,  for  they  were  un- 
derstood to  have  money,  and  Sanders  let 
us  think  her  merely  greedy.  We  drifted 
into  his  opinions. 

Had  Jess  been  one  of  those  who  could 
go  about,  she  would,  I  think,  have  read 
Nanny  better  than  the  rest  of  us,  for  her  in- 
tellect was  bright,  and  always  led  her 
straight  to  her  neighbors'  hearts.  But 
Nanny  visited  no  one,  and  so  Jess  only 
knew  her  by  hearsay.  Nanny's  stand- 
offishness,  as  it  was  called,  was  not  a  popu- 
lar virtue,  and  she  was  blamed  still  more  for 
trying  to  keep  her  husband  out  of  other 
people's  houses.     He  was  so  frank  and  full 


THE    TRAGEDY    OF    A    WIFZ.  Ill 

of  gossip,  and  she  was  so  reserved.  He 
had  been  known  to  ask  neighbors  to  tea, 
and  she  had  shown  that  she  wanted  them 
away,  or  even  begged  them  not  to  come. 
We  were  not  accustomed  to  go  behind  the 
face  of  a  thing,  and  so  we  set  down  Nanny's 
inhospitahty  to  churHshness  or  greed. 
Only  after  her  death,  when  other  women 
had  to  attend  him,  did  we  get  to  know 
what  a  tyrant  Sanders  was  at  his  own 
hearth.  The  ambition  of  Nanny's  Hfe  was 
that  we  should  never  know  it;  that  we 
should  continue  extolling  him,  and  say 
what  we  chose  about  herself.  She  knew 
that  if  we  went  much  about  the  house  and 
saw  how  he  treated  her,  Sanders  would 
cease  to  be  a  respected  man  in  Thrums. 

So  neat  in  his  dress  was  Sanders,  that  he 
was  seldom  seen  abroad  in  corduroys.  His 
blue  bonnet  for  everyday  wear  was  such  as 
even  well-to-do  farmers  only  wore  at  fair- 
time,  and  it  was  said  that  he  had  a  hand- 
kerchief for  every  clay  in  the  week.  Jess 
often  held  him  up  to  Hendry  as  a  model  of 
courtesy  and  polite  manners. 

"  Him  an'   Nanny's  no  weel  matched," 


JI2  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

she  used  to  say,  "  for  he  has  grand  ideas, 
an'  she's  o'  the  commonest.  It  maun  be  a 
richt  trial  to  a  man  wi'  his  fine  tastes  to  hae 
a  wife  'at's  wrapper's  never  even  on,  an' 
wha  doesna  wash  her  mutch  aince  in  a 
month." 

It  is  true  that  Xanny  was  a  slattern,  but 
only  because  she  married  into  slavery.  She 
was  kept  so  busy  washing  and  ironing  for 
Sanders  that  she  ceased  to  care  how  she 
looked  herself.  What  did  it  matter 
whether  her  mutch  was  clean?  Weaving 
and  washing  and  cooking,  doing  the  work 
of  a  breadwinner  as  well  as  of  a  housewife, 
hers  was  soon  a  body  prematurely  old,  on 
Avhich  no  wrapper  would  sit  becomingly. 
Before  her  face,  Sanders  would  hint  that 
her  slovenly  ways  and  dress  tried  him 
sorely,  and  in  company,  at  least,  she  only 
bowed  her  head.  We  were  given  to  re- 
specting those  who  worked  hard,  but 
Xanny,  we  thought,  was  a  wom.an  of  means, 
and  Sanders  let  us  call  her  a  miser.  He 
was  always  anxious,  he  said,  to  be  gener- 
ous, but  Nanny  would  not  let  him  assist  a 
starving    child.     They    had    really    not    a 


THE    TRAGEDY    OF    A    WIFE.  II3: 

penny  beyond  what  Nanny  earned  at  the 
loom,  and  now  we  know  how  Sanders 
shook  her  if  she  did  not  earn  enough.  His 
vanity  was  responsible  for  the  story  about 
her  wealth,  and  she  w'ould  not  have  us  think 
him  vain. 

Because  she  did  so  much,  we  said  that 
she  was  as  strong  as  a  cart  horse.  The 
dottor  who  attended  her  during  the  last 
week  of  her  life  discovered  that  she  had 
never  been  well.  Yet  we  had  often  won- 
dered at  her  letting  Sanders  pit  his  own 
potatoes  when  he  was  so  unable. 

"  Them  'at's  strong,  ye  see,"  Sanders  ex- 
plained, "  doesna  ken  what  illness  is,  an' 
so  it's  nat'ral  they  shouldna  sympathize  wV 
onweel  fowk.  Ay,  I'm  rale  thankfu'  'at 
Nanny  keeps  her  health.  I  often  envy 
her." 

These  were  considered  creditable  senti- 
ments, and  so  they  might  have  been  had 
Nanny  uttered  them.  Thus  easily  Sanders 
built  up  a  reputation  for  never  complaining. 
I  know  now  that  he  was  a  hard  and  cruel' 
man  who  should  have  married  a  shrew;  but 
while  Nanny  lived  I  thought  he  had  a  beau- 


J  14  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

tiful  nature.  Many  a  time  I  have  spoken 
with  him  at  Hendry's  gate,  and  feh  the  bet- 
ter of  his  heartiness. 

"  I  mauna  complain,"  he  always  said; 
"  na,  we  maun  juist  fecht  awa." 

Little,  indeed,  had  he  to  complain  of,  and 
little  did  he  fight  away. 

Sanders  went  twice  to  church  every  Sab- 
bath, and  thrice  when  he  got  the  chance. 
There  was  no  man  who  joined  so  lustily  in 
the  singing  or  looked  straighter  at  the 
minister  during  the  prayer.  I  have  heard 
the  minister  say  that  Sanders's  constant  at- 
tendance was  an  encouragement  and  a  help 
to  him.  Nanny  had  been  a  great  church- 
goer when  she  was  a  maiden,  but,  after  her 
marriage,  she  only  went  in  the  afternoons, 
and  a  time  came  when  she  ceased  altogether 
to  attend.  The  minister  admonished  her 
many  times,  telling  her,  among  other 
things,  that  her  irreligious  ways  were  a  dis- 
tress to  her  husband.  She  never  replied 
that  she  could  not  go  to  church  in  the  fore- 
noon because  Sanders  insisted  on  a  hot 
meal  being  waiting  him  when  the  service 
€nded.     But  it  was  true  that  Sanders,  for 


THE    TRAGEDV    OF    A    WIFE.  II5 

appearance  sake,  would  have  had  her  go  to 
church  in  the  afternoons.  It  is  now  be- 
lieved that  on  this  point  alone  did  she  re- 
fuse to  do  as  she  was  bidden.  Nanny  was 
very  far  from  perfect,  and  the  reason  she 
forsook  the  kirk  utterly  w^as  because  she 
had  no  Sabbath  clothes. 

She  died  as  she  had  lived,  saying  not  a 
word  when  the  minister,  thinking  it  his 
duty,  drew  a  cruel  comparison  between  her 
life  and  her  husband's. 

"  I  got  my  first  glimpse  into  the  real 
state  of  affairs  in  that  house,"  the  doctor 
told  me  one  night  on  the  brae,  "  the  day  be- 
fore she  died.  *  You're  sure  there's  no 
hope  for  me? '  she  asked  wistfully,  and 
when  I  had  to  tell  the  truth  she  sank  back 
on  the  pillow  with  a  look  of  joy." 

Nanny  died  with  a  lie  on  her  lips.  "  Ay," 
she  said,  "  Sanders  has  been  a  guid  man 
to  me." 


Il6  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

MAKING  TiIE  BEST  OF  IT. 

Hendry  had  a  way  of  resuming  a  con= 
versation  where  he  had  left  off  the  night  be- 
fore. He  would  revolve  a  topic  in  his 
mind,  too,  and  then  begin  aloud,  "  He's  a 
queer  ane,"  or,  "  Say  ye  so?  "  v;hich  was  at 
times  perplexing.  W'ith  the  whole  day  be- 
fore them,  none  of  the  family  was  inclined 
to  waste  strength  in  talk;  but  one  morning 
when  he  was  blowing  the  steam  of¥  his  por- 
ridge, Hendry  said  suddenly: 

"  He's  hame  again." 

The  womenfolk  gave  him  time  to  say  to 
whom  he  was  referring,  which  he  occasion- 
ally did  as  an  afterthought.  But  he  began 
to  sup  his  porridge,  making  eyes  as  it  went 
steaming  down  his  throat. 

"  I  dinna  ken  wha  ye  mean."  Jess  said; 
while  Leeby,  who  was  on  her  knees  rub- 
bing the  hearthstone  a  bright  blue,  paused 
to  catch  her  father's  ansv,-er. 


MAKING    THE    BEST    OF    IT.  II7 

"  Jeames  Geogehan,"  replied  Hendry, 
with  the  horn  spoon  in  his  mouth, 

Leeby  turned  to  Jess  for  enlightenment. 

"  Geogehan,"  repeated  Jess;  "  what,  no 
little  Jeames  'at  ran  awa?  " 

"  Ay,  ay,  but  he's  a  muckle  stoot  man 
noo,  an'  gey  gray." 

"  Ou,  I  dinna  wonder  at  that.  It's  a 
guid  forty  year  since  he  ran  off." 

"  I  waurant  ye  couldna  say  exact  hoc 
lang  syne  it  is?  " 

Hendry  asked  this  question  because  Jess 
Avas  notorious  for  her  memory,  and  he 
gloried  in  putting  it  to  the  test. 

"  Let's  see,"  she  said. 

"  But  wha  is  he?  "  asked  Leeby.  '*  I 
never  kent  nae  Geogehans  in  Thrums." 

"  Weel,  it's  forty-one  years  syne  come 
Michaelmas,"  said  Jess. 

"  Hoo  do  you  ken?  " 

"  I  ken  fine.  Ye  mind  his  father  had 
heen  lickin'  'im,  an'  he  ran  awa  in  a  passion, 
cry  in'  oot  'at  he  would  never  come  back? 
Ay,  then,  he  had  a  pair  o'  boots  on  at  the 
time,  an'  his  father  ran  after  'im  an'  took 
them  aff  'im.     The  boots  was  the  last  'at 


Il8  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

Davie  Mearns  made,  an'  its  fully  ane-an- 
forty  years  since  Davie  fell  ower  the  quarry 
on  the  day  o'  the  hill-market.  That  set- 
tles't.  Ay,  an'  Jeames  '11  be  turned  fifty 
noo,  for  he  was  comin'  on  for  ten  year  auld 
at  that  time.  Ay,  ay,  an'  he's  come  back. 
What  a  state  Eppie  '11  be  in!  " 

"  Tell's  wha  he  is,  mother." 

"  Od,  he's  Eppie  Guthrie's  son.  Her 
man  was  William  Geogehan,  but  he  died 
afore  you  vras  born,  an'  as  Jeames  was  their 
only  bairn,  the  name  o'  Geogehan's  been  a 
kind  o'  lost  sicht  o'.  Hae  ye  seen  him,. 
Hendry?  Is't  true  'at  he  made  a  fortune 
in  thae  far-awa  countries?  Eppie  '11  be 
blawin'  aboot  him  richt?  " 

"  There's  nae  doubt  aboot  the  siller," 
said  Hendry,  "  for  he  drove  in  a  carriage 
frae  Tilliedrum,  an'  they  say  he  needs  a 
closet  to  hing  his  claes  in,  there's  sic  a  heap 
o'  them.  Ay,  but  that's  no  a'  he's  brocht 
na,  far  frae  a'." 

"  Dinna  gang  awa  till  ye've  telt's  a' 
aboot  'im.     What  mair  has  he  brocht?  " 

"  He's  brocht  a  wife,"  said  Hendry, 
twisting  his  face  curiously. 


MAKING    THE    BEST    OF    IT.  I19 

"  There's  naething  surprisin'  in  that." 

"  Ay,  but  there  is,  though.  Ye  see, 
"Eppie  had  a  letter  frae  'im  no  mony  weeks 
syne,  sayin'  'at  he  wasna  deid,  an'  he  was 
comin'  hame  wi'  a  fortune.  He  said,  too, 
'at  he  was  a  single  man,  an'  she's  been 
boastin'  aboot  that,  so  ye  may  think  'at  she 
got  a  surprise  when  he  hands  a  wuman  oot 
o'  the  carriage." 

"  An'  no  a  pleasant  ane,"  said  Jess. 
■"  Had  he  been  leein'?  " 

'•  Na,  he  was  single  when  he  wrote,  an' 
single  when  he  got  the  length  o'  Tilliedrum. 
Ye  see,  he  fell  in  wi'  the  lassie  there,  an' 
juist  gaed  clean  aft  his  heid  aboot  her. 
After  managin'  to  withstand  the  women  o' 
foreign  lands  for  a'  thae  years,  he  gaed  fair 
skeer  aboot  this  stocky  at  Tilliedrum. 
She's  juist  seventeen  year  auld,  an'  the  auld 
fule  sits  wi'  his  airm  round  her  in  Eppie's 
hoose,  though  they've  been  mairit  this 
fortnicht." 

"  The  doited  fule,"  said  Jess. 

James  Geogehan  and  his  bride  became 
the  talk  of  Thrums,  and  Jess  saw  them 
from  her  window  several  times.     The  first 


120  A    WIXDOV/    IN    THRUMS. 

time  she  had  only  eyes  for  the  jacket  with 
fur  round  it  worn  by  Mrs.  Geogehan,  but 
subsequently  she  took  in  Jeames. 

"  He's  tryin'  to  carry't  afif  wi'  his  heid  in 
the  air,"  she  said,  "  but  I  can  see  he's  fell 
shamefaced,  an'  nae  wonder.  Ay,  I  sepad 
he's  mair  ashamed  o't  in  his  heart  than  she 
is.  It's  an  awfu'  like  thing  o'  a  lassie  to 
marry  an  auld  man.  She  had  dune't  for 
the  siller.  Ay,  there's  pounds'  worth  o' 
fur  aboot  that  jacket." 

"  They  say  she  had  siller  hersel',"  said 
Tibbie  Birse. 

''  Dinna  tell  me,"  said  Jess.  "  I  ken  by 
her  wy  o'  carryin'  hersel'  'at  she  never  had 
a  jacket  like  that  afore." 

Eppie  was  not  the  only  person  in  Thrums 
whom  this  marriage  enraged.  Stories  had 
long  been  alive  of  Jeames's  fortune,  which 
his  cousins'  children  were  some  day  to  di- 
vide among  themselves,  and  as  a  conse- 
quence these  young  men  and  women 
looked  on  Mrs.  Geogehan  as  a  thief. 

"  Dinna  bring  the  wife  to  our  hoose, 
Jeames,"  one  of  them  told  him.  "  for  we 
would  be  fair  ashamed   to  hae  her.     We 


MAKING    THE    BEST    OF    IT.  121 

used  to  hae  a  respect  for  yer  name,  so  we 
couldna  look  her  i'  the  face." 

"  She's  mair  Hke  yer  dochter  than  yer 
wife,"  said  another. 

"  Nay,"  said  a  third,  "  naebody  could 
mistak  her  for  yer  dochter.  She's  ower 
young-like  for  that." 

"  Wi'  the  siller  you'll  leave  her,  Jeames," 
Tammas  Haggart  told  him,  "  she'll  get  a 
younger  man  for  her  second  venture." 

All  this  was  very  trying  to  the  newly  mar- 
ried man,  who  was  thirsting  for  sympathy. 
Hendry  was  the  person  whom  he  took  into 
"his  confidence. 

"  It  may  hae  been  foolish  at  my  time  o' 
life,"  Hendry  reported  him  to  have  said, 
"  but  I  couldna  help  it.  If  they  juist  kent 
her  better  they  couldna  but  see  'at  she's  a 
terrible  takkin'  crittur." 

Jeames  was  generous;  indeed  he  had 
come  with  the  intention  of  scattering 
largess.  A  beggar  met  him  one  day  on  the 
"brae,  and  got  a  shilling  from  him.  She  was 
waving  her  arms  triumphantly  as  she 
passed  Hendry's  house,  and  Leeby  got  the 
story  from  her. 


122  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  Eh,  he's  a  fine  man  that,  an'  a  saft  ane,'* 
the  woman  said.  "  I  juist  speired  at  'im 
hoo  his  bonny  wife  was,  an'  he  oot  wi'  a 
shilhn'!" 

Leeby  did  not  keep  this  news  to  herself, 
and  soon  it  was  through  the  town.. 
Jeames's  face  began  to  brighten. 

"  They're  comin'  round  to  a  mair  sensi- 
ble wy  o'  lookin'  at  things,"  he  told  Hen- 
dry. "  I  was  walkin'  wi'  the  wife  i'  the 
buryin'  ground  yesterday,  an'  we  met 
Kitty  McQueen.  She  was  ane  o'  the  warst 
agin  me  at  first,  but  she  telt  me  i'  the 
buryin'  ground  'at  when  a  man  mairit  he 
should  please  'imsel'.  Oh,  they're  comin" 
round." 

What  Kitty  told  Jess  was: 

"  I  minded  o'  the  tinkler  wuman  'at  he 
gae  a  shillin'  to,  so  I  thocht  I  would  butter 
up  at  the  auld  fule  too.  Weel,  I  assure  ye,. 
I  had  nae  suner  said  'at  he  was  rale  wise  to 
marry  wha  he  likit  than  he  slips  a  pound 
note  into  my  hand.  Ou,  Jess,  we've  taen 
the  wrang  wy  wi'  Jeames.  I've  telt  a'  my 
bairns  'at  if  they  meet  him  they're  to  praise 
the  wife  terrible,  an'  I'm  far  mista'en  if  that 


MAKING    THE    BEST    OF    IT.  I23 

doesna  mean  five  shillin's  to  ilka  ane  o' 
^hem." 

Jean  Whamond  got  a  pound  note  for 
saying  that  Jeames's  wife  had  an  uncom- 
mon pretty  voice,  and  Davit  Lunan  had  ten 
shillings  for  a  judicious  word  about  her 
attractive  manners.  Tibbie  Birse  invited 
the  newly  married  couple  to  tea  (one 
pound). 

"  They're  takkin'  to  her,  they're  takkin' 
"to  her,"  Jeames  said  gleefully.  "  I  kent 
they  would  come  round  in  time.  Ay,  even 
my  mother,  'at  was  sae  mad  at  first,  sits  for 
hours  noo  aside  her,  haudin'  her  hand. 
They're  juist  inseparable." 

The  time  came  when  we  had  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Geogehan  and  Eppie  to  tea. 

"  It's  true  enough,"  Leeby  ran  ben  to  tell 
Jess,  "  'at  Eppie  an'  the  wife's  fond  o'  ane 
another.  I  wouldna  hae  believed  it  o' 
Eppie  if  I  hadna  seen  it,  but  I  assure  ye 
they  sat  even  at  the  tea-table  haudin'  ane 
another's  hands.  I  waurant  they're  doin't 
this  meenute." 

"  I  wasna  born  on  a  Sabbath,"  retorted 
JesG.     "  Na,  na,  dinna  tell  me  Eppie's  fond 


124  ^    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS, 

o'  her.  Tell  Eppie  to  come  but  to  the  kit= 
chen  when  the  tea's  ower." 

Jess  and  Eppie  had  half  an  hour's  conver- 
sation alone,  and  then  our  guests  left. 

"  It's  a  richt  guid  thing,"  said  Hendry, 
"  at  Eppie  has  taen  sic  a  notion  o'  the  wife." 

"  Ou,  ay,"  said  Jess. 

Then  Hendry  hobbled  out  of  the  house. 

"  What  said  Eppie  to  ye?  "  Leeby  asked 
her  mother. 

"  Juist  what  I  expeckit,"  Jess  answered. 
"  Ye  see  she's  dependent  on  Jeames,  so  she 
has  to  butter  up  at  'im." 

"  Did  she  say  onything  aboot  haudin'  the 
wife's  hand  sae  fond-like?  " 

"  Ay,  she  said  it  was  an  awfu'  trial  to  her, 
an'  'at  it  sickened  her  to  see  Jeames  an'  the: 
wife  baith  believin'  'at  she  likit  to  do't," 


VISITORS    AT    THE    MANSE.  I25 

CHAPTER   XIV. 

VISITORS  AT  THE  MANSE. 

On  bringing  home  his  bride,  the  minister 
showed  her  to  us,  and  we  thought  she 
would  do  when  she  realized  that  she 
was  not  the  minister.  She  was  a  grand 
lady  from  Edinburgh,  though  very  frank, 
and  we  simple  folk  amused  her  a  good 
deal,  especially  when  we  were  sitting 
cowed  in  the  manse  parlor  drinking  a 
dish  of  tea  with  her,  as  happened  to  Leeby, 
her  father,  and  me,  three  days  before  Jamie 
came  home. 

Leeby  had  refused  to  be  drawn  into  con- 
versation, like  one  who  knew  her  place,  yet 
all  her  actions  were  genteel  and  her  mono- 
syllabic replies  in  the  Englishy  tongue,  as 
of  one  who  was,  after  all,  a  little  above  the 
common.  When  the  minister's  wife  asked 
her  whether  she  took  sugar  and  cream,  she 
said  politely,  "  If  you  please  "  (though  she 
did  not  take  sugar),  a  reply  that  contrasted 
with    Hendry's   equally   well-intended   an- 


126  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

swer  to  the  same  question.     "  I'm  no  par- 
tikler,"  was  what  Hendry  said. 

Hendry  had  left  home  glumly,  declaring 
that  the  white  collar  Jess  had  put  on  him 
would  throttle  him;  but  her  feikieness 
ended  in  his  surrender,  and  he  was  looking 
unusually  perjink.  Had  not  his  daughter 
been  present  he  would  have  been  the  most 
at  ease  of  the  company,  but  her  manners 
were  too  fine  not  to  make  an  impression 
upon  one  who  knew  her  on  her  everyday 
behavior,  and  she  had  also  ways  of  bring- 
ing Hendry  to  himself  by  a  touch  beneath 
the  table.  It  was  in  church  that  Leeby 
brought  to  perfection  her  manner  of  look- 
ing after  her  father.  When  he  had  confi- 
dence in  the  preacher's  soundness,  he  would 
sometimes  have  slept  in  his  pew,  if  Leeby 
had  not  had  a  watchful  foot.  She  wak- 
ened him  in  an  instant,  while  still  looking 
modestly  at  the  pulpit;  however  reverently 
he  might  try  to  fall  over,  Leeby's  foot  went 
out.  She  was  such  an  artist  that  I  never 
caught  her  in  the  act.  All  I  knew  for  cer- 
tain was  that,  now  and  then,  Hendry  sud- 
denly sat  up. 


^tri-- 


VISITORS    AT    THE    MANSE,  1 27 

The  ordeal  was  over  when  Leeby  went 
upstairs  to  put  on  her  things.  After  tea 
Hendry  had  become  bolder  in  talk,  his  sub- 
ject being  ministerial.  He  had  an  ex- 
traordinary knowledge,  got  no  one  knew 
where,  of  the  matrimonial  affairs  of  all  the 
ministers  in  these  parts,  and  his  stories 
about  them  ended  frequently  with  a 
chuckle.  He  always  took  it  for  granted 
that  a  minister's  marriage  was  woman- 
hood's great  triumph,  and  that  the  particu- 
lar woman  who  got  him  must  be  very 
clever.  Some  of  his  tales  were  even  more 
curious  than  he  thought  them,  such  as  the 
one  Leeby  tried  to  interrupt  by  saying  we 
must  be  going. 

"  There's  Mr.  Pennycuick,  noo,"  said 
Hendry,  shaking  his  head  in  wonder  at 
what  he  had  to  tell;  "him  'at's  minister 
at  Tilliedrum.  Weel,  when  he  was  a 
probationer  he  was  michty  poor,  an' 
one  day  he  was  walkin'  into  Thrums  frae 
Glen  Quharity,  an'  he  taks  a  rest  at  a  little 
housey  on  the  road.  The  fowk  didna  ken 
him  ava,  but  they  saw  he  was  a  minister,  an' 
the  lassie  was  sorry  to  see  him  wi'  sic  an. 
auld  hat.     What  think  ye  she  did? " 


128  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"Come  away,  father,"  said  Leeby,  re- 
entering the  parlor;  but  Hendry  was  now 
in  full  pursuit  of  his  story. 

"  I'll  tell  ye  what  she  did,"  he  continued. 
"  She  juist  took  his  hat  awa,  an'  put  her 
father's  new  ane  in  its  place,  an'  Mr.  Penny- 
cuick  never  kent  the  differ  till  he  landed  in 
Thrums.  It  was  terrible  kind  o'  her.  Ay, 
but  the  auld  man  would  be  in  a  michty  rage 
when  he  found  she  had  swappit  the  hats." 

"  Come  away,"  said  Leeby,  still  politely, 
though  she  was  burning  to  tell  her  mother 
how  Hendry  had  disgraced  them. 

"  The  minister,"  said  Hendry,  turning  his 
back  on  Leeby,  "  didna  forget  the  lassie. 
Na;  as  sune  as  he  got  a  kirk,  he  married 
her.  Ay,  she  got  her  reward.  He  married 
her.     It  was  rale  noble  of  'im." 

I  do  not  know  what  Leeby  said  to  Hen- 
dry when  she  got  him  beyond  the  manse 
gate,  for  I  stayed  behind  to  talk  to  the 
minister.  As  it  turned  out,  the  minister's 
•wife  did  most  of  the  talking,  smiling  good- 
humoredly  at  country  gawkiness  the  while. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  am  sure  I  shall  like 
Thrums,  though  those  teas  to  the  congre- 


VISITORS    AT    THE    MANSE.  129 

gation  are  a  little  trying.     Do  you  know, 
Thrums  is  the  only   place   I  was  ever  in 
where    it    struck    me    that  the    men    are 
cleverer  than  the  women." 
She  told  us  why. 

"  Well,  to-night  affords  a  case  in  point. 
Mr.  McQumpha  was  quite  brilliant,  was  he 
not,  in  comparison  with  his  daughter? 
Really  she  seemed  so  put  out  at  being  at 
the  manse  that  she  could  not  raise  her  eyes. 
I  question  if  she  would  know  me  again,  and 
I  am  sure  she  sat  in  the  room  as  one  blind- 
folded. I  left  her  in  the  bedroom  a  minute, 
and  I  assure  you,  when  I  returned  she  was 
still  standing  on  the  same  spot  in  the  center 
of  the  floor." 

I  pointed  out  that  Leeby  had  been  awe- 
struck. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  she  said;  "  but  it  is  a  pity 
she  cannot  make  use  of  her  eyes,  if  not  of 
her  tongue.  Ah,  the  Thrums  women  are 
good,  I  believe,  but  their  wits  are  sadly  in 
need  of  sharpening.  I  dare  say  it  comes  of 
living  in  so  small  a  place." 

I  overtook  Leeby  on  the  brae,  aware,  as 
I  saw  her  alone,  that  it  had  been  her  father 


130  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

whom  I  passed  talking  to  Tammas  Hag- 
gart  in  the  square.  Hendry  stopped  to 
have  what  he  called  a  tove  with  any  likely 
person  he  encountered,  and,  indeed,  though 
he  and  I  often  took  a  walk  on  Saturdays,  I 
generally  lost  him  before  we  were  clear  of 
the  town. 

In  a  few  moments  Leeby  and  I  were  at 
home  to  give  Jess  the  news. 

"  Whaur's  yer  father?  "  asked  Jess,  as  if 
Hendry's  way  of  dropping  behind  was  still 
unknown  to  her. 

"  Ou,  I  left  him  speakin'  to  Gavin  Birse," 
said  Leeby.  "  I  daur  say  he's  awa  to  some 
hoose." 

"  It's  no  very  silvendy  [safe]  his  comin' 
ower  the  brae  by  himsel',"  said  Jess,  adding 
in  a  bitter  tone  of  conviction,  "  but  he'll 
gang  into  no  hoose  as  lang  as  he's  so 
weel  dressed.  Na,  he  would  think  it 
boastfu'.' 

I  sat  down  to  a  book  by  the  kitchen  fire; 
but,  as  Leeby  became  communicative,  I 
read  less  and  less.  While  she  spoke  she 
was  baking  bannocks  with  all  the  might  of 
her,  and  Jess,  leaning  forward  in  her  chair, 


VISITORS    AT    THE    MANSE.  I3I 

was  arranging  them  in  a  semicircle  round 
the  fire. 

"  Na,"  was  the  first  remark  of  Leeby's 
that  came  between  me  and  my  book,  "  it  is 
no  new  furniture." 

"  But  there  was  three  cartloads  o't, 
Leeby,  sent  on  frae  Edinbory.  Tibbie 
Birse  helpit  to  lift  it  in,  and  she  said  the  par- 
lor furniture  beat  a'." 

"  Ou,  it's  substantial,  but  it  is  no  new.  I 
sepad  it  had  been  bocht  cheap  second- 
hand, for  the  chair  I  had  was  terrible, 
scratched  like,  an',  what's  mair,  the  airm- 
chair  was  a  heap  shinier  than  the  rest." 

"Ay,  ay,  I  wager  it  had  been  new  stuffed. 
Tibbie  said  the  carpet  cowed  for  grandeur."" 

"  Oh,  I  dinna  deny  it's  a  guid  carpet;  but 
if  it's  been  turned  once  it's  been  turned  half 
a  dozen  times,  so  it's  far  frae  new.  Ay,  an' 
forby,  it  was  rale  threadbare  aneath  the 
table,  so  ye  may  be  sure  they've  been  cut- 
tin't  an'  puttin'  the  worn  pairt  whaur  it 
would  be  least  seen." 

"  They  say  'at  there's  twa  grand  gas 
brackets  i'  the  parlor,  an'  a  wonderfu'  gaso- 
liery  i'  the  dinin'  room?  " 


13^  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  We  wasna  i'  the  dinin'  room,  so  I  ken 
naething  aboot  the  gasoHery;  but  I'll  tell 
ye  what  the  gas  brackets  is.  I  recognized 
them  immediately.  Ye  mind  the  aiild 
gasoliery  i'  the  dinin'  room  had  twa  lichts? 
Ay,  then,  the  parlor  brackets  is  made  oot  o' 
the  auld  gasoliery." 

"  Weel,  Leeby,  as  sure  as  ye're  standin* 
there,  that  passed  through  my  head  as  sune 
as  Tibbie  mentioned  them!" 

"  There's  nae  doot  about  it.  Ay,  I  was 
in  ane  o'  the  bedrooms,  too!  " 

"It  would  be  grand?" 

"  I  wouldna  say  'at  it  was  partikler  grand, 
l)Ut  there  was  a  grand  mask  [quantity]  o' 
things  in't,  an'  near  everything  was 
covered  wi'  cretonne.  But  the  chairs  dinna 
match.  There  was  a  very  bonny-painted 
cloth  alang  the  chimley — what  they  call  a 
mantelpiece  border,  I  warrant." 

"  Sal,  I've  often  wondered  what  they 
was." 

"  Ay,  I  assure  ye  they  winna  be  ill  to 
mak,  for  the  border  was  juist  nailed  upon 
a  board  laid  on  the  chimley.  There's  nae- 
thing to  bender's  makin'  ane  for  the  room." 


VISITORS    AT    THE    MANSE.  133 

"  Ay,  we  could  sew  something  on  the 
border  instead  o'  paintin't.  The  room 
lookit  weel,  ye  say?  " 

"  Yes,  but  it  w-as  economically  furnished. 
There  was  nae  carpet  below  the  wax- 
cloth; na,  there  was  nane  below  the  bed 
either." 

"Was'tagrandbed?" 

"  It  had  a  fell  lot  o'  brass  aboot  it,  but 
there  was  juist  one  pair  o'  blankets.  I 
thocht  it  was  gey  shabby,  hae'n  the  ewer  a 
different  pattern  frae  the  basin;  ay,  an'  there 
was  juist  a  poker  in  the  fireplace,  there  was 
nae  tangs." 

"  Yea,  yea;  they'll  hae  but  one  set  o' 
bedroom  fireirons.  The  tangs  '11  be  in  an- 
ither  room.  Tod,  that's  no  sae  michty 
grand  for  Edinbory.  What  like  was  she 
hersel'?" 

"  Ou,  very  ladylike  and  saft  spoken. 
She's  a  canty  body  an'  frank.  She  wears 
her  hair  low  on  the  left  side  to  hod  [hide] 
a  scar,  an'  there's  twa  warts  on  her  richt 
hand." 

"■  There  hadna  been  a  fire  i'  the  parlor?  " 

"  No,  but  it  was  ready  to  licht.     There 


234  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

was  Sticks  and  paper  in't.  The  paper  was 
oot  o'  a  dressmaker's  journal.'" 

"  Ye  say  so?  She'll  mak  her  ain  frocks, 
I  sepad." 

When  Hendry  entered  to  take  off  his  col- 
lar and  coat  before  sitting  down  to  his 
evening  meal  of  hot  water,  porter,  and 
bread  mixed  in  a  bowl,  Jess  sent  me  off  to 
the  attic.  As  I  climbed  the  stairs  I  re- 
membered that  the  minister's  wife  thought 
Leeby  in  need  of  sharpening. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

HOW  GAVIN  BIRSE  PUT  IT  TO  MAG  LOWNIE. 

Ox  a  wet  day  the  rain  gathered  in  blobs 
on  the  road  that  passed  our  garden.  Then 
it  crawled  into  the  cart  tracks  until  the 
road  was  streaked  with  water.  Lastly,  the 
water  gathered  in  heavy  yellow  pools.  If 
the  on-ding  still  continued,  clods  of  earth 
toppled  from  the  garden  dyke  into  the 
ditch. 

On  such  a  day,  when  even  the  dulseman 


HOW    GAVIN    PUT    IT    TO    MAG    LOWNIE.       135 

had  gone  into  shelter,  and  the  women 
scud.ded  by  with  their  wrappers  over  their 
heads,  came  Gavin  Birse  to  our  door. 
Gavin,  who  was  the  Glen  Quharity  post, 
was  still  young,  but  had  never  been  quite 
the  same  man  since  some  amateurs  in  the 
glen  ironed  his  back  for  rheumatism.  I 
thought  he  had  called  tc  have  a  crack  with 
me.  He  sent  his  compliments  up  to  the 
attic,  however,  by  Leeby,  and  would  I  come 
and  be  a  witness? 

Gavin  came  up  and  explained.  He  had 
taken  off  his  scarf  and  thrust  it  into  his 
pocket,  lest  the  rain  should  take  the  color 
out  of  it.  His  boots  cheeped,  and  his 
shoulders  had  risen  to  his  ears.  He  stood 
steaming  before  my  fire. 

"  If  it's  no  ower  muckle  to  ask  ye."  he 
said,  "  I  would  like  ye  for  a  witness." 

"  A  witness!  But  for  what  do  you  need 
a  witness,  Gavin?  " 

"  I  want  ye,"  he  said,  "  to  come  wi'  me 
to  Mag's  and  be  a  witness." 

Gavin  and  Mag  Lownie  had  been  en- 
gaged for  a  year  or  more.  ]\Iag  was  the 
daughter  of  Janet  Ogilvy,  who  was  best  re- 


136  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

membered  as  the  body  that  took  the  hill 
[that  is,  wandered  about  it]  for  twelve 
hours  on  the  day  JNIr.  Dishart,  the  Auld 
Licht  minister,  accepted  a  call  to  another 
church. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  Gavin,"  I 
asked,  "  that  your  marriage  is  to  take  place 
to-day?  " 

By  the  twist  of  his  mouth  I  saw  that  he 
was  only  deferring  a  smile. 

"  Far  frae  that,"  he  said. 

"  Ah,  then,  you  have  quarreled,  and  I 
am  to  speak  up  for  you?  " 

"  Na,  na,"  he  said,  "  I  dinna  want  ye  to 
do  that  above  all  things.  It  would  be  a 
favor  if  ye  could  gie  me  a  bad  character." 

This  beat  me,  and,  I  dare  say,  my  face 
showed  it. 

"  I'm  no  juist  what  ye  would  call  anx- 
ious to  marry  Mag  noo,"  said  Gavin,  with- 
out a  tremor. 

I  told  him  to  go  on. 

"  There's  a  lassie  oot  at  Craigiebuckle," 
he  explained,  "  workin'  on  the  farm — 
Jeanie  Luke  by  name.  Ye  may  hae  seen 
her?  " 


HOW    GAVIN    PUT    IT    TO    MAG    LOWNIE.        137 

"  What  of  her?  "  I  asked  severely. 

*'  Weel,"  said  Gavin,  still  unabashed, 
"  I'm  thinkin'  noo  'at  I  would  rather  hae 
her." 

Then  he  stated  his  case  more  fully. 

"  Ay,  I  thocht  I  liked  Alag  oncommon 
till  I  saw  Jeanie,  an'  I  like  her  fine  yet,  but 
I  prefer  the  other  ane.  That  state  o'  mat- 
ters canna  gang  on  for  ever,  so  I  came  into 
Thrums  the  day  to  settle't  one  wy  or 
another." 

"  And  how,"  I  asked,  "  do  you  propose 
going  about  it?  It  is  a  somewhat  deli- 
cate business." 

"  Ou,  I  see  nae  great  difficulty  in't.  I'll 
speir  at  Mag,  blunt  oot,  if  she'll  let  me  aff. 
Yes,  I'll  put  it  to  her  plain." 

"  You're  sure  Jeanie  would  take  you?  " 

"  Ay;  oh,  there's  nae  fear  o'  that." 

"  But  if  Mag  keeps  you  to  your  bar- 
gain?" 

"  Weel,  in  that  case  there's  nae  harm 
■done." 

"  You  are  in  a  great  hurry,  Gavin?  " 

"  Ye  may  say  that ;  but  I  want  to  be  mar- 
ried.    The  wifie  I  lodge  wi'  canna  last  lang, 


138  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

an'  I  would  like  to  settle  doon  in  some 
place." 

"  So  you  are  on  your  way  to  INIag's 
now?  " 

"  Ay,  we'll  get  her  in  atween  twal'  and 
ane." 

"  Oh,  yes;  but  why  do  you  want  me  to 
go  with  you?  " 

"  I  want  ye  for  a  witness.  If  she  winna 
let  me  aff,  weel  and  guid;  and  if  she  w^ill,  it's 
better  to  hae  a  witness  in  case  she  should 
go  back  on  her  w^ord." 

Gavin  gave  his  proposal  briskly,  and  as 
coolly  as  if  he  were  only  asking  me  to  go 
fishing;  but  I  did  not  accompany  him  to 
Mag's.  He  left  the  house  to  look  for  an- 
other witness,  and  about  an  hour  afterward 
Jess  saw  him  pass  with  Tammas  Hag- 
gart.  Tammas  cried  in  during  the  evening 
to  tell  us  how  the  mission  prospered. 

"  Mind  ye,"  said  Tammas,  a  drop  of 
water  hanging  to  the  point  of  his  nose,  "  I 
disclaim  all  responsibility  in  the  business.. 
I  ken  Mag  weel  for  a  thrifty,  respectable 
woman,  as  her  mither  was  afore  her,  and  so 
I  said  to  Gavin  when  he  came  to  speir  me." 


HOW    GAVIN    PUT    IT    TO    MAG    LOWNIE.       139 

"  Ay,  mony  a  pirn  has  'Lisbeth  filled  to 
xne,"  said  Hendry,  settling  down  to  a  remi- 
niscence. 

"  No  to  be  ower  hard  on  Gavin,"  contin- 
ued Tammas,  forestalling  Hendry,  "  he 
took  what  I  said  in  guid  part ;  but  aye  when 
I  stopped  speakin'  to  draw  breath,  he  says, 
'The  queistion  is,  will  ye  come  wi'  me?' 
He  was  michty  made  up  in  's  mind." 

"  Weel,  ye  went  wi'  him,"  suggested 
Jess,  who  wanted  to  bring  Tammas  to  the 
point. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  stone-breaker,  "  but  no 
in  sic  a  hurry  as  that." 

He  worked  his  mouth  round  and  round, 
to  clear  the  course,  as  it  were,  for  a  sarcasm. 

"  Fowk  often  say,"  he  continued,  "  'at 
am  quick  beyond  the  ord'nar'  in  seein'  the 
humorous  side  o'  things." 

Here  Tammas  paused,  and  looked  at  us. 

"  So  ye  are,  Tammas,"  said  Hendry. 
^'  Losh,  ye  mind  hoo  ye  saw  the  humorous 
side  o'  me  wearin'  a  pair  o'  boots  'at  wisna 
marrows!  No,  the  ane  had  a  toe-piece  on, 
an'  the  other  hadna." 

"  Ye  juist  wore  them  sometimes  when  ye 


140  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

was  delvin'/'  broke  in  Jess,  "  ye  have  a& 
guid  a  pair  o'  boots  as  ony  in  Thrums." 

"  Ay,  but  I  had  worn  them,"  said  Hen- 
dry, "  at  odd  times  for  mair  than  a  year^ 
an'  I  had  never  seen  the  humorous  side  o' 
them.  Weel,  as  fac  as  death  [here  he  ad- 
dressed me],  Tammas  had  juist  seen  them, 
twa  or  three  times  when  he  saw  the  humor- 
ous side  o'  them.  Syne  I  saw  their  humor- 
ous side,  too,  but  no  till  Tammas  pointed 
it  oot." 

"  That  was  naething,"  said  Tammas^ 
"  naething  ava  to  some  things  I've  done." 

"  But  what  aboot  Mag?  "  said   Leeby, 

"  We  wasna  that  length,  was  we?  "  said 
Tammas.  "  Na,  we  was  speakin'  aboot  the 
humorous  side.  Ay,  wait  a  v/ee,  I  didna 
mention  the  humorous  side  for  nae- 
thing." 

He  paused  to  reflect. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said  at  last,  brightening 
up,  "  I  was  sayin'  to  ye  hoo  quick  I  was  to 
see  the  humorous  side  o'  onything.  Ay, 
then,  what  made  me  say  that  was  'at  in  a 
clink  [flash]  I  saw  the  humorous  side  o' 
Gavin's  position." 


HOW    GAVIN    PUT    IT    TO    MAG    LOWNIE.        1 AI 

"  Man,  man!  "  said  Hendry,  admiringly^ 
''  and  what  is't?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  this,  there's  something  humor- 
ous in  speirin'  a  woman  to  let  ye  aff  so  as  ye 
can  be  married  to  another  woman." 

"  I  daur  say  there  is,"  said  Hendry 
doubtfully. 

"  Did  she  let  him  aff?  "  asked  Jess,  tak- 
ing the  words  out  of  Leeby's  mouth. 

"'  I'm  comin'  to  that,"  said  Tammas. 
''  Gavin  proposes  to  me  after  I  had  haen  my 
laugh " 

''  Yes,"  cried  Hendry,  banging  the  table 
with  his  fist,  "  it  has  a  humorous  side. 
Ye're  richt  again,  Tammas." 

"  I  wish  ye  wadna  blatter  [beat]  the 
table,"  said  Jess,  and  then  Tammas  pro- 
ceeded. 

"  Gavin  wanted  me  to  tak  paper  an'  ink 
an'  a  pen  wi'  me,  to  write  the  proceedin's 
doon,  but  I  said,  '  Na,  na,  I'll  tak  paper,  but 
no  nae  ink  nor  nae  pen,  for  there  '11  be  ink 
an'  a  pen  there.'     That  was  v;hat  I  said." 

"  An'  did  she  let  him  aff?  "  asked  Leeby. 

"  Weel,"  said  Tammas,  "  afT  we  goes  to 
Mag's  hoose,  an'  sure  enough  Mag  was  in. 


142  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

She  was  alane,  too;  so  Gavin,  no  to  waste 
time,  juist  sat  doon  for  politeness'  sake,  an' 
syne  rises  up  again ;  an'  says  he,  '  Marget 
Lownie,  I  hae  a  solemn  question  to  speir 
at  ye;  namely  this,  Will  you,  Marget  Low- 
nie, let  me,  Gavin  Birse,  aff?  '  " 

"  Mag  would  start  at  that?  " 

"  Sal,  she  was  braw  an'  cool.  I  thocht 
she  maun  hae  got  wind  o'  his  intentions 
aforehand,  for  she  juist  replies,  quiet-like, 
'  Hoo  do  ye  want  aff,  Gavin? ' 

"  '  Because,'  says  he,  like  a  book,  '  my 
affections  has  undergone  a  change.' 

"  '  Ye  mean  Jean  Luke,'  says  Mag. 

"  '  That  is  wha  I  mean,'  says  Gavin,  very 
straitforrard." 

"  But  she  didna  let  him  aff,  did  she?  " 

"  Na,  she  wasna  the  kind.  Says  she,  '  I 
wonder  to  hear  ye,  Gavin,  but  am  no  goin* 
to  agree  to  naething  o'  that  sort.' 

"  '  Think  it  ower,'  says  Gavin. 

"  '  Na,  my  mind's  made  up,'  said  she. 

"  '  Ye  would  sune  get  anither  man,'  he 
says  earnestly. 

"  '  How  do  I  ken  that? '  she  speirs,  rale 
sensibly,  I  thocht,  for  men's  no  easy  to  get. 


HOW    GAVIN    PUT    IT    TO    MAG    LOWNIE.       I43. 

"  '  Am  sure  o'  't,'  Gavin  says,  \vi'  michty 
conviction  in  his  voice,  '  for  ye're  bonny  to 
look  at,  an'  weel-kent  for  bein'  a  guid 
body.' 

"  '  Ay,'  says  Mag,  '  I'm  glad  ye  like  me, 
Gavin,  for  ye  have  to  tak  me.'  " 

"  That  put  a  clincher  on  him,"  inter- 
rupted Hendry. 

"  He  was  loath  to  gie  in,"  replied  Tam- 
mas,  "  so  he  says,  *  Ye  think  am  a  fine  char- 
acter, Alarget  Lownie,  but  ye're  far  mis- 
ta'en.  I  wouldna  wonder  but  what  I  was 
lossin'  my  place  some  o'  thae  days,  an'  syne 
whaur  would  ye  be?  Marget  Lownie,'  he 
goes  on,  '  am  nat'rally  lazy  an'  fond  o'  the 
drink.  As  sure  as  ye  stand  there,  am  a 
reglar  deevil ! '  " 

"  That  was  strong  language,"  said  Hen- 
dry, "  but  he  would  be  wantin'  to  fleg 
[frighten]  her?  " 

"  Juist  so,  but  he  didna  manage  't,  for 
Mag  says,  '  We  a'  hae  oor  faults,  Gavin, 
an'  deevil  or  no  deevil,  ye're  the  man  for 
me!' 

"  Gavin  thocht  a  bit,"  continued  Tam- 
mas,  "  an'  syne  he  tries  her  on  a  new  tack. 


T4-i  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

*  iviarget  Lownie,'  he  says,  '  ye're  father's 
an  auld  man  noo,  an'  he  has  naebody  but 
yersel'  to  look  after  him.  I'm  thinkin'  it 
would  be  kind  o'  cruel  o'  me  to  tak  ye  awa 
fraehim?'" 

"  Mag  wouldna  be  taen  in  wi'  that;  she 
wasna  born  on  a  Sawbath,"  said  Jess,  using 
one  of  her  favorite  sayings. 

"She  wasna,"  answered  Tammas.  "Says 
she,  '  Hae  nae  fear  on  that  score,  Gavin; 
my  father's  fine  willm'  to  spare  me! '  " 

"An'  that  ended  it?" 

"  Ay,  that  ended  it." 

"  Did  ye  tak  it  doon  in  writin'?  "  asked 
Hendry. 

"  There  was  nae  need,"  said  Tammas, 
handing  round  his  snufif-mull.  "  No,  I 
never  touched  paper.  When  I  saw  the 
thing  was  settled,  I  left  them  to  their 
coortin'.  They're  to  tak  a  look  at  Snecky 
Hobart's  auld  hoose  the  nicht.     It's  to  let." 


THE    SON    FROM    LONDON.  145 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  SON  FROM   LONDON. 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  there  used  to 
come  to  Thrums  a  painter  from  nature 
whom  Hendry  spoke  of  as  the  drawer.  He 
lodged  with  Jess  in  my  attic,  and  when  the 
weavers  met  him  they  said,  "Well,  drawer," 
and  then  passed  on,  grinning.  Tammas 
Haggart  was  the  first  to  say  this. 

The  drawer  was  held  a  poor  man  because 
he  straggled  about  the  country  looking  for 
subjects  for  his  draws,  and  Jess,  as  was  her 
way,  gave  him  many  comforts  for  which 
she  would  not  charge.  That,  I  dare  say, 
was  why  he  painted  for  her  a  little  portrait 
of  Jamie.  \\'hen  the  drawer  came  back  to 
Thrums  he  always  found  the  painting  in  a 
frame  in  the  room.  Here  I  must  make  a 
confession  about  Jess.  She  did  not  in  her 
secret  mind  think  the  portrait  quite  the 
thing,  and  as  soon  as  the  drawer  departed 
it  was  removed  from,  the  frame  to  make  way 
for  a  calendar.     The  deception  was  very 


146  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

innocent,  Jess  being  anxious  not  to  hurt 
the  donor's  feelings. 

To  those  who  have  the  artist's  eye,  the 
picture,  which  hangs  in  my  schoolhouse 
now,  does  not  show  a  handsome  lad,  Jamie 
being  short  and  dapper,  with  straw-colored 
hair,  and  a  chin  that  ran  away  into  his  neck. 
That  is  how  I  once  regarded  him,  but  I 
have  little  heart  for  criticism  of  those  I  like, 
and,  despite  his  madness  for  a  season,  of 
W'hich,  alas !  I  shall  have  to  tell,  I  am  always 
Jamie's  friend.  Even  to  hear  anyone  dis- 
paraging the  appearance  of  Jess's  son  is  to 
me  a  pain. 

All  Jess's  acquaintances  knew  that  in  the 
beginning  of  every  month  a  registered  let- 
ter reached  her  from  London.  To  her  it 
was  not  a  matter  to  keep  secret.  She  was 
proud  that  the  help  she  and  Hendry  needed 
in  the  gloaming  of  their  lives  should  corwe 
from  her  beloved  son,  and  the  neighbors 
esteemed  Jamie  because  he  was  good  to  his 
mother.  Jess  had  more  humor  than  any 
other  woman  I  have  known  while  Leeby 
was  but  sparingly  endowed;  yet,  as  the 
month  neared  its  close,  it  was  the  daughter 


THE    SON    FROM    LONDON.  I47 

who  put  on  the  humorist,  Jess  thinking- 
money  too  serious  a  thing  to  jest  about. 
Then  if  Leeby  had  a  moment  for  gossip,  as 
when  ironing  a  dickey  for  Hendry,  and  the 
iron  was  a  trifle  too  hot,  she  would  look 
archly  at  me  before  addressing  her  mother 
in  these  words: 

"  Will  he  send,  think  ye?  " 

Jess,  who  had  a  conviction  that  he  would 
send,  affected  surprise  at  the  question. 

"  Will  Jamie  send  this  month,  do  ye 
mean?  Na,  oh,  losh  no!  it's  no  to  be 
expeckit.  Na,  he  couldna  do't  this 
time." 

"  That's  what  ye  aye  say,  but  he  aye 
sends.  Yes,  an'  vara  weel  ye  ken  'at  he 
will  send." 

"  Na,  na,  Leeby;  dinna  let  me  ever  think 
o'  sic  a  thing  this  month." 

"  As  if  ye  wasna  thinkin'  o't  day  an' 
nicht!" 

*'  He's  terrible  mindfu',  Leeby,  but  he 
doesna  hae't.  Na,  no  this  month;  mebbe 
next  month." 

''  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  mother,  'at 
ye'll  no  be  up  oot  o'  yer  bed  on  jMonunday 


148  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

an  hour  afore  yer  usual  time,  lookin'  for 
the  post?  " 

'■  Na,  no  this  time.  I  may  be  up,  an'  tak 
a  look  for  'im,  but  no  expeckin'  a  regis- 
terdy;  na  na,  that  wouldna  be  reasonable." 

"  Reasonable  here,  reasonable  there,  up 
you'll  be,  keekin'  [peering]  through  the 
blind  to  see  if  the  post's  comin',  ay,  an' 
what's  mair,  the  post  will  come,  and  a  reg- 
isterdy  in  his  hand  wi'  fifteen  shillings  in't 
at  the  least." 

"  Dinna  say  fifteen,  Leeby;  I  would  never 
think  o'  sic  a  sum.     Alebbe  five " 

"  Five!  I  wonder  to  hear  ye.  Vara 
weel  you  ken  'at  since  he  had  twenty-twa 
shillings  in  the  week  he's  never  sent  less 
than  half  a  sovereign." 

"  No,  but  we  canna  expeck " 

"  Expeck!  No,  but  it's  no  expeck,  it's 
get." 

On  the  Monday  morning  when  I  came 
downstairs,  Jess  was  in  her  chair  by  the 
window,  beaming,  a  piece  of  paper  in  her 
hand.  I  did  not  require  to  be  told  about 
it,  but  I  was  told.  Jess  had  been  up  before 
Leeby  could  get  the  fire  lit,  with  great  difift- 


THE    SON    FROM    LONDON,  149 

culty  reaching  the  window  in  her  bare  feet, 
and  many  a  time  had  she  said  that  the  post 
must  be  by. 

"  Havers!  "  said  Leeby,  "  he  winna  be  for 
an  hour  yet.  Come  awa  back  to  your 
bed." 

"  Na,  he  maun  be  by,"  Jess  would  say  in 
a  few  minutes;  "  ou,  we  couldna  expeck 
this  month." 

So  it  went  on  until  Jess's  hand  shook  the 
bhnd. 

"  He's  comin',  Leeby,  he's  comin'. 
He'll  no  hae  naething;  na,  I  couldna  ex- 
peck He's  by!" 

"  I  dinna  believe  it,"  cried  Leeby,  run- 
ning to  the  window,  "  he's  juist  at  his  tricks 
again." 

This  was  in  reference  to  a  way  our  sat- 
urnine post  had  of  pretending  that  he 
brought  no  letters  and  passing  the  door. 
Then  he  turned  back.  "  Mistress  Mc- 
Qumpha,"  he  cried,  and  whistled. 

"  Run,  Leeby,  run,"  said  Jess  excitedly. 

Leeby  hastened  to  the  door,  and  came 
back  with  a  registered  letter. 

"  Registerdy,"  she  cried  in  triumph,  and 


150  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS, 

Jess,  with  fond  hands,  opened  the  letter. 
By  the  time  I  came  down  the  money  was 
hid  away  in  a  box  beneath  the  bed,  where 
not  even  Leeby  could  find  it,  and  Jess  was 
on  her  chair  hugging  the  letter.  She  pre- 
served all  her  registered  envelopes. 

This  was  the  first  time  I  had  been  in 
Thrums  when  Jamie  was  expected  for  his 
ten  days'  holiday,  and  for  a  week  we  dis- 
cussed little  else.  Though  he  had  written 
saying  when  he  would  sail  for  Dundee, 
there  was  quite  a  possibility  of  his  appear- 
ing on  the  brae  at  any  moment,  for  he  liked 
to  take  Jess  and  Leeby  by  surprise.  Hen- 
dry there  was  no  surprising,  unless  he  was 
in  the  mood  for  it,  and  the  coolness  of  him 
was  one  of  Jess's  grievances.  Just  two 
years  earlier  Jamie  came  north  a  week  be- 
fore his  time,  and  his  father  saw  him  from 
the  window.  Instead  of  crying  out  in 
amazement  or  hacking  his  face,  for  he  was 
shaving  at  the  time,  Hendrv  calmly  wiped 
his  razor  on  the  window-sill,  and  said: 

"  Ay,  there's  Jamie." 

Jamie  was  a  little  disappointed  at  being 
seen  in  this  way,  for  he  had  been  looking 


THE    SON    FROM    LONDON.  151 

forward  for  four  and  forty  hours  to  repeat- 
ing the  sensation  of  the  year  before.  On 
that  occasion  he  had  got  to  the  door  un- 
noticed, where  he  stopped  to  hsten.  I 
dare  say  he  checked  his  breath,  the  better 
to  catch  his  mother's  voice,  for  Jess  being 
an  invahd,  Jamie  thought  of  her  first.  He 
had  Leeby  sworn  to  write  the  truth  about 
her,  but  many  an  anxious  hour  he  had  on 
hearing  that  she  was  "  complaining  fell 
[considerably]  about  her  back  the  day," 
Leeby,  as  he  knew,  being  frightened  to 
alarm  him.  Jamie,  too,  had  given  his 
promise  to  tell  exactly  how  he  was  keeping, 
but  often  he  wrote  that  he  was  "  fine " 
when  Jess  had  her  doubts.  When  Hen- 
dry wrote  he  spread  himself  over  the  table, 
and  said  that  Jess  was  "  juist  about  it,"  or 
"  aiT  and  on,"  which  does  not  tell  much. 
So  Jamie  hearkened  painfully  at  the  door, 
and  by  and  by  heard  his  mother  say  to 
Leeby  that  she  was  sure  the  teapot  was  run- 
ning out.  Perhaps  that  voice  was  as  sweet 
to  him  as  the  music  of  a  maiden  to  her 
lover,  but  Jamie  did  not  rush  into  his 
mother's  arms.     Jess  has  told  me  with  a 


152  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

beaming  face  how  craftily  he  behaved„ 
The  old  man,  of  lungs  that  shook  Thrums 
by  night,  who  went  from  door  to  door  sell- 
ing firewood,  had  a  way  of  shoving  doors 
rudely  open  and  crying: 

"  Ony  rozetty  roots!"  and  him  Jamie 
imitated. 

"Juist  think,"  Jess  said,  as  she  recalled 
the  incident,  "  what  a  startle  we  got.  As 
we  think,  Pete  kicks  open  the  door  and 
cries  oot,  '  Ony  rozetty  roots?  '  and  Leeby 
says  '  No,'  and  gangs  to  shut  the  door. 
Next  minute  she  screeches,  '  What,  what, 
what!  '  and  in  walks  Jamie!  " 

Jess  was  never  able  to  decide  whether  it 
was  more  delightful  to  be  taken  aback  in 
this  way  or  to  prepare  for  Jamie.  Sudden 
excitement  was  bad  for  her  according  to 
Hendr}%  who  got  his  medical  knowledge 
second-hand  from  persons  under  treatment, 
but  with  Jamie's  appearance  on  the  thresh- 
old Jess's  health  began  to  improve.  This 
time  he  kept  to  the  appointed  day,  and  the 
house  was  turned  upside  down  in  his 
honor.  Such  a  polish  did  Leeby  put  on  the 
flao'ons  which  huns:  on  the  kitchen  walk 


THE    SON    FROM    LONDON.  153 

that,  passing  between  them  and  the  win- 
dow, I  thought  once  I  had  been  struck  by 
Hghtning.  On  the  morning  of  the  day 
that  was  to  bring  him,  Leeby  was  up  at 
two  o'clock,  and  eight  hours  before  he 
could  possibly  arrive  Jess  had  a  nightshirt 
warming  for  him  at  the  fire.  I  was  no 
longer  anybody  except  as  a  person  who 
could  give  Jamie  advice.  Jess  told  me 
what  I  was  to  say.  The  only  thing  he  and 
his  mother  quarreled  about  was  the  under- 
clothing she  would  swaddle  him  in,  and 
Jess  asked  me  to  back  her  up  in  her 
■entreaties. 

"  There's  no  a  doubt,"  she  said,  "  but 
what  it's  a  hantle  caulder  here  than  in  Lon- 
don, an'  it  would  be  a  terrible  business  if 
he  was  to  tak  the  cauld." 

Jamie  was  to  sail  from  London  to  Dun- 
dee, and  come  on  to  Thrums  from  Tillie- 
drum  in  the  post-cart.  The  road  at  that 
time,  however,  avoided  the  brae,  and  at  a 
certain  point  Jamie's  custom  was  to  alight, 
and  take  the  short  cut  home,  along  a  farm 
road  and  up  the  commonty.  Here,  too, 
Hookey  Crewe,  the  post,  deposited  his  pas- 


154  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

senger's  box,  which  Hendry  wheeled  home 
in  a  barrow.  Long  before  the  cart  had  lost 
sight  of  Tilliedrum,  Jess  was  at  her 
window. 

"  Tell  her  Hookey's  often  late  on  Mon- 
undays,"  Leeby  whispered  to  me,  "  for 
she'll  gang  oot  o'  her  mind  if  she  thinks 
there's  onything  wrang." 

Soon  Jess  was  painfully  excited,  though 
she  sat  as  still  as  salt. 

"  It  maun  be  yer  time,"  she  said,  looking 
at  both  Leeby  and  me,  for  in  Thrums  we 
went  out  and  met  our  friends. 

"  Hoots,"  retorted  Leeby,  trying  to  be 
hardy,  "  Hookey  canna  be  oot  o'  Tillie- 
drum yet." 

"  He  maun  hae  startit  lang  syne." 

"  I  wonder  at  ye,  mother,  puttin'  yersef 
in  sic  a  state.     Ye'll  be  ill  when  he  comes." 

*'  Na,  am  no  in  nae  state,  Leeby,  but 
there  '11  no  be  nae  accident,  will  there?  " 

"  It's  most  provokin'  'at  ye  will  think  'at 
every  time  Jamie  steps  into  a  machine 
there  '11  be  an  accident.  Am  sure  if  ye 
would  tak  mair  after  my  father,  it  would  be 
a  blessin'.     Look  hoo  cool  he  is." 


THE    SON    FROM    LONDON.  1$$ 

"Whaur  is  he,  Leeby?  " 

"  Oh,  I  dinna  ken.  The  henmost  time 
I  saw  him  he  was  layin'  doon  the  law  aboot 
something  to  T'nowhead." 

"  It's  an  awfu'  wy  that  he  has  o'  gaen 
oot  withoot  a  word.  I  wouldna  wonder 
'at  he's  no  bein'  in  time  to  meet  Jamie,  an' 
that  would  be  a  pretty  business." 

"  Od,  ye're  sure  he'll  be  in  braw  time." 

"  But  he  hasna  taen  the  barrow  wi'  him, 
an'  hoo  is  Jamie's  luggage  to  be  brocht  up 
withoot  a  barrow?" 

"  Barrow!  He  took  the  barrow  to  the 
sawmill  an  hour  syne  to  pick  it  up  at  Rob 
Angus's  on  the  wy." 

Several  times  Jess  was  sure  she  saw  the 
cart  in  the  distance,  and  implored  us  to  be 
off. 

"  I'll  tak  no  settle  till  ye're  awa."  she 
said,  her  face  now  flushed  and  her  hands 
working  nervously. 

"  We've  time  to  gang  and  come  twa  or 
three  times  yet,"  remonstrated  Leeby;  but 
Jess  gave  me  so  beseeching  a  look  that  I 
put  on  my  hat.  Then  Hendry  dandered  in 
to  change  his  coat  deliberately,  and  when 


156  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

the  three  of  us  set  off,  we  left  Jess  with  her 
eye  on  the  door  by  which  Jamie  must  enter. 
He  was  her  only  son  now,  and  she  had  not 
seen  him  for  a  year. 

On  the  way  down  the  commonty,  Leeby 
had  the  honor  of  being  twice  addressed  as 
Miss  McQumpha,  but  her  father  was  Hen- 
dry to  all,  which  shows  that  we  make  our 
social  position  for  ourselves.  Hendry 
looked  forward  to  Jamie's  annual  appear- 
ance only  a  little  less  hungrily  than  Jess^ 
but  his  pulse  still  beat  regularly.  Leeby 
would  have  considered  it  almost  wicked  to 
talk  of  anything  except  Jamie  now,  but 
Hendry  cried  out  comments  on  the  tatties, 
yesterday's  roup,  the  fall  in  jute,  to  every- 
body he  encountered.  When  he  and  a 
crony  had  their  say  and  parted,  it  was  their 
custom  to  continue  the  conversation  in 
shouts  until  they  were  out  of  hearing. 

Only  to  Jess  at  her  window  v.-as  the  cart 
late  that  afternoon.  Jamie  jumped  from  it 
in  the  long  greatcoat  that  had  been  new  to 
Thrums  the  year  before,  and  Hendry  said 
calmly: 

"  Ay,  Jamie." 


THE    SON    FROM    LONDON.  157 

Leeby  and  Jamie  made  signs  that  they 
recognized  each  other  as  brother  and  sis- 
ter, but  I  was  the  only  one  with  whom,  he 
shook  hands.  He  was  smart  in  his  move- 
ments and  quite  the  gentleman,  but  the 
Thrums  ways  took  hold  of  him  again  at 
once.  He  even  inquired  for  his  mother  in 
a  tone  that  was  meant  to  deceive  me  into 
thinking  he  did  not  care  how  she  was. 

Hendry  would  have  had  a  talk  out  of  him 
on  the  spot,  but  was  reminded  of  the  lug- 
gage. We  took  the  heavy  farm  road,  and 
soon  we  were  at  the  sawmill.  I  am  natu- 
rally leisurely,  but  we  climbed  the  com- 
monty  at  a  stride.  Jamie  pretended  to  be 
calm,  but  in  a  dark  place  I  saw  him  take 
Leeby's  hand,  and  after  that  he  said  not  a 
word.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  elbow 
of  the  brae,  where  he  would  come  into  sight 
of  his  mother's  window.  Many,  many  a 
time,  I  know,  that  lad  had  prayed  to  God 
for  still  another  sight  of  the  wandow  with 
his  mother  at  it.  So  we  came  to  the  cor- 
ner where  the  stile  is  that  Sam'l  Dickie 
jumped  in  the  race  for  T'nowhead's  Bell, 
and  before  Jamie  was  the  house  of  his  child- 


158  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

hood  and  his  mother's  window,  and  the 
fond,  anxious  face  of  his  mother  herself. 
My  eyes  are  dull,  and  I  did  not  see  her,  but 
suddenly  Jamie  cried  out,  **  My  mother!  " 
and  Leeby  and  I  were  left  behind.  When 
I  reached  the  kitchen  Jess  was  crying,  and 
her  son's  arms  were  round  her  neck.  I 
went  away  to  my  attic. 

There  was  only  one  other  memorable 
event  of  that  day.  Jamie  had  finished  his 
tea,  and  we  all  sat  round  him,  listening  to 
his  adventures  and  opinions.  He  told  us 
how  the  country  should  be  governed,  too, 
and  perhaps  put  on  airs  a  little.  Hendry 
asked  the  questions,  and  Jamie  answered 
them  as  pat  as  if  he  and  his  father  were  go- 
ing through  the  Shorter  Catechism.  When 
Jamie  told  anything  marvelous,  as  how 
many  towels  were  used  at  the  shop  in  a  day, 
or  that  twopence  was  the  charge  for  a 
single  shave,  his  father  screwed  his  mouth 
together  as  if  preparing  to  whistle,  and 
then,  instead,  made  a  curious  clucking 
noise  with  his  tongue,  which  was  reserved 
for  the  expression  of  absolute  amazement. 
As  for  Jess,  who  was  given  to  making  much 


THE    SON    FROM    LONDON.  I59 

of  me,  she  ignored  my  remarks  and  laughed 
hilariously  at  jokes  of  Jamie's  which  had 
been  received  in  silence  from  me  a  few  min- 
utes before. 

Slowly  it  came  to  me  that  Leeby  had 
something  on  her  mind,  an  I  that  Jamie  was 
talking  to  her  with  his  eyes.  I  learned 
afterward  that  they  were  plotting  how  to 
get  me  out  of  the  kitchen,  but  were  too  im- 
patient to  wait.  Thus  it  was  that  the  great 
event  happened  in  my  presence.  Jamie 
rose  and  stood  near  Jess — I  dare  say  he  had 
planned  the  scene  frequently.  Then  he 
produced  from  his  pocket  a  purse,  and 
coolly  opened  it.  Silence  fell  upon  us  as 
we  saw  that  purse.  From  it  he  took  a 
neatly  folded  piece  of  paper,  crumpled  it 
into  a  ball,  and  flung  it  into  Jess's  lap. 

I  cannot  say  whether  Jess  knew  what  it 
was.  Her  hand  shook,  and  for  a  moment 
she  let  the  ball  of  paper  lie  there. 

"  Open't  up,"  cried  Leeby,  who  was  in 
the  secret. 

"  What  is't? "  asked  Hendry,  drawing 
nearer. 

"  It's  juist  a  bit  paper  Jamie   flung  at 


l6o  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

me/'    said    Jess,    and    then    she    unfolded 

it. 

"  It's  a  five-pound  note!  "  cried  Hendry. 

"  Na,  na;  oh  keep  us,  no,"  said  Jess;  but 
she  knew  it  was 

For  a  time  she  could  not  speak. 

"  I  canna  tak  it,  Jamie,"  she  faltered  at 
last. 

But  Jamie  waved  his  hand,  meaning 
that  it  v.as  nothing,  and  then,  lest  he  should 
burst,  hurried  out  into  the  garden,  where 
he  walked  up  and  down  whistling.  ]\Iay 
God  bless  the  lad,  thought  I.  I  do  not 
know  the  history  of  that  five-pound  note, 
but  well  aware  I  am  that  it  grew  slowly  out 
of  pence  and  silver,  and  that  Jamie  denied 
his  passions  many  things  for  this  great 
hour.  His  sacrifices  watered  his  young 
heart  and  kept  it  fresh  and  tender.  Let 
us  no  longer  cheat  our  consciences  by 
talking  of  filthy  lucre.  ]\Ioney  may  always 
be  a  beautiful  thing.  It  is  we  who  make  it 
grimy. 


A    HOME    FOR    GENIUSES.  l6l 

CHAPTER   XVII. 

A  HOME  FOR  GENIUSES. 

From  hints  he  had  dropped  at  odd  times 
I  knew  that  Tammas  Haggart  had  a 
scheme  for  geniuses,  but  not  until  the  even- 
ing after  Jamie's  arrival  did  I  get  it  out  of 
him.  Hendry  was  with  Jamie  at  the  fish- 
ing, and  it  came  about  that  Tammas  and 
I  had  the  pig-sty  to  ourselves. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  when  we  had  got 
a  grip  of  the  subject,  "  I  dount  pretend  as 
my  ideas  is  to  be  followed  without  deevia- 
tion,  but  ondootedly  something  should  be 
done  for  geniuses,  them  bein'  aboot  the 
only  class  as  we  do  naething  for.  Yet 
they're  fowk  to  be  prood  o',  an'  we 
shouldna  let  them  overdo  the  thing,  nor  run 
into  debt;  na,  na.  There  was  Robbie 
Burns,  noo,  as  real  a  genius  as  ever " 

At  the  pig-sty,  where  we  liked  to  have 
more  than  one  topic,  we  had  frequently  to 
tempt  Tammas  away  from  Burns. 

"  Your  scheme,"  I  interposed,  "  is  for 
living  geniuses,  of  course?  " 


l62  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  thoughtfully,  "  them  'at's 
gone  canna  be  brocht  back.  Weel,  my 
idea  is  'at  a  Home  should  be  built  for 
genuises  at  the  public  expense,  whaur  they 
could  all  live  thegither,  an  be  decently 
looked  after.  Na,  no  in  London;  that's  no 
my  plan,  but  I  would  hae't  within  an  hour's 
distance  o'  London,  say  five  mile  frae  the 
market  place,  an'  standin'  in  a  bit  garden, 
whaur  the  geniuses  could  walk  aboot  arm 
in  arm,  composin'  their  minds." 

"  You  would  Lave  the  grounds  walled  in, 
I  suppose,  so  that  the  public  could  not 
intrude?  " 

"  Weel,  there's  a  difficulty  there,  be- 
cause, ye'll  observe,  as  the  public  would 
support  the  institootion,  they  would  hae  a 
kind  o'  richt  to  look  in.  How-some-ever, 
I  daur  say  we  could  arrange  to  fling  the 
grounds  open  to  the  public  once  a  vreek  on 
condition  'at  they  didna  speak  to  the 
geniuses.  I'm  thinkin'  'at  if  there  was  a 
small  chairge  for  admission  the  Home 
could  be  made  self-supportin'.  Losh!  to 
think  'at  if  there  had  been  sic  an  institoo- 
tion in  his  time  a  man  might  hae  sat  on  the 


A    HOME    FOR    GENIUSES.  1 65 

bit  dyke  and  watched  Robbie  Burns  dan- 
derin'  roond  the " 

"  You  would  divide  the  Home  into 
suites  of  rooms,  so  that  every  inmate  would 
have  his  own  apartments?  " 

"  Not  by  no  means;  na,  na.  The  mair  I 
read  aboot  geniuses  the  mair  clearly  I  see 
as  their  wy  o'  living  alane  ower  muckle  is 
ane  o'  the  things  as  breaks  doon  their 
health  and  makes  them  meeserable.  I'  the 
Home  they  would  hae  a  bedroom  apiece, 
but  the  parlor  an'  the  other  sittin'  rooms 
would  be  for  all,  so  as  they  could  enjoy  ane 
another's  company.  The  management? 
Oh,  that's  aisy!  The  superintendent  would 
be  a  medical  man  appointed  by  Parliament, 
and  he  would  hae  men-servants  to  do  his 
biddin'." 

"  Not  all  men-servants,  surely?  " 

"  Every  one  o'  them.  Man,  genuises  is 
no  to  be  trusted  wi'  womenfolk.  No,  even 
Robbie  Bu " 

"  So  he  did;  but  would  the  inmates  have 
to  put  themselves  entirely  in  the  superin- 
tendent's hands? " 

"  Nae  doubt;  an'  they  would  see  it  was 


164  A    "\VIKDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

the  wisest  thing  they  could  do.  He  would 
be  careful  o'  their  health,  an'  send  them 
early  to  bed  as  weel  as  hae  them  up  at 
eight  sharp.  Geniuses'  healths  is  always 
breakin'  doon  because  of  late  hours,  as  in 
the  case  o'  the  lad  wha  used  often  to  begin 
his  immortal  writin's  at  twal  o'clock  at 
nicht,  a  thing  'at  would  ruin  ony  constitoo- 
tion.  But  the  superintendent  would  see  as 
they  had  a  tasty  supper  at  nine  o'clock — 
something  as  agreed  wi'  them.  Then  for 
half  an  hour  they  would  quiet  their  brains 
readin'  oot  aloud,  time  about,  frae  sic  a 
book  as  the  '  Pilgrim's  Progress,'  an'  the 
gas  would  be  turned  alT  at  ten  pre- 
cisely." 

"  When  would  you  have  them  up  in  the 
morning?  " 

"  At  sax  in  summer  an'  seven  in  winter. 
The  superintendent  would  see  as  tl'vey  were 
all  properly  bathed  every  mornin',  cleanli- 
ness bein'  most  important  for  the  preserva- 
tion o'  health." 

"  This  sounds  well;  but  suppose  a  genius 
broke  the  rules — lay  in  bed,  for  instance, 
reading  by  the  light  of  a  candle  after  hours, 


A    HOME    FOR    GENIUSES.  165 

or  refused  to  take  his  bath  in  the 
morning?  " 

"  The  superintendent  would  hae  to  pun- 
ish him.  The  genius  would  be  sent  back  to 
liis  bed,  maybe.  An'  if  he  lay  lang  i'  the 
mornin'  he  would  hae  to  gang  withoot  his 
breakfast." 

"  That  would  be  all  very  well  where  the 
inmate  only  broke  the  regulations  once  ii. 
a  way;  but  suppose  he  were  to  refuse  to 
take  his  bath  day  after  day  (and,  you  know, 
geniuses  are  said  to  be  eccentric  in  that  par- 
ticular), what  would  be  done?  You  could 
not  starve  him;  geniuses  are  too  scarce." 

"  Na,  na;  in  a  case  like  that  he  would 
Tiae  to  be  reported  to  the  public.  The 
thing  would  hae  to  come  afore  the  Hoose 
of  Commons.  Ay,  the  superintendent 
would  get  a  member  o'  the  Opposeetion  to 
ask  a  queistion  such  as  *  Can  the  honorable 
gentlemen,  the  Secretary  of  State  for  Home 
Affairs,  inform  the  Hoose  whether  it  is  a 
fac  that  Mr.  Sic-a-one,  the  well-known 
g-enius,  at  present  resident  in  the  Home  for 
Geniuses,  has.  contrairy  to  regulations,  per- 
seestently  and  obstinately  refused  to  change 


1 66  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

his  linen;  and,  if  so,  whether  the  Govern- 
ment proposes  to  take  ony  steps  in  the 
matter? '  The  newspapers  would  report 
the  discussion  next  mornin',  an'  so  it  would 
be  made  public  withoot  onnecessary 
ootlay." 

"  In  a  general  way,  however,  you  would 
give  the  geniuses  perfect  freedom?  They 
could  work  when  they  liked,  and  come  and 
go  when  they  liked?  " 

"  Not  so.  The  superintendent  would 
fix  the  hours  o'  wark,  an'  they  would  all 
write,  or  whatever  it  was,  thegither  in  one 
large  room.  ^lan,  man!  it  would  mak  a 
grand  draw  for  a  painter-chield,  that  room,, 
wi'  all  the  geniuses  working  awa  the- 
gither." 

"  But  when  the  labors  of  the  day  were 
over,  the  genius  would  be  at  liberty  to 
make  calls  by  himself  or  to  nm  up,  say,  ta 
London  for  an  hour  or  two?  " 

"  Hoots  no,  that  would  spoil  everything. 
It's  the  drink,  ye  see,  as  does  for  a  terrible 
lot  o'  geniuses.     Even  Rob " 

"  Alas!  yes.  But  would  you  have  them 
all  teetotalers?  " 


A    HOME    FOR    GENIUSES.  167 

"  What  do  ye  tak  me  for?  Na,  na;  the 
superintendent  would  allow  them  one  glass 
o'  toddy  every  nicht,  an'  mix  it  himsel' ;  but 
he  would  never  let  the  keys  o'  the  press, 
whaur  he  kept  the  drink,  oot  o'  his  hands. 
They  would  never  be  allowed  oot  o'  the 
srairden  either,  withoot  a  man  to  look  after 
them;  an'  I  wouldna  burthen  them  wi'  ower 
muckle  pocket-money.  Saxpence  in  the 
week  would  be  suffeecient." 

"  How  about  their  clothes?  " 

"  They  would  get  twa  suits  a  year,  wi' 
the  letter  G  sewed  on  the  shoulders,  so  as 
if  they  were  lost  they  could  be  recognized 
and  brocht  back." 

"  Certainly  it  is  a  scheme  deserving  con- 
sideration, and  I  have  no  doubt  our 
geniuses  would  jump  ?„  it;  but  you  must 
remember  that  some  of  them  would  have 
wives." 

"  Ay,  an'  some  o'  them  would  hae  hus- 
bands. I've  been  thinkin'  that  oot,  an'  I 
daur  say  the  best  plan  would  be  to  par- 
tition afif  a  pairt  o'  the  Home  for  female 
geniuses." 

"  Would  Parliament  elect  the  mem- 
bers? " 


l68  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  I  wouldna  trust  them.  The  election 
would  hae  to  be  by  competitive  examina- 
tion. Na,  I  canna  say  wha  would  draw  up 
the  queistions.  The  scheme's  juist  growin' 
i'  my  mind,  but  the  mair  I  think  o't  the  bet- 
ter I  hke  it." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

LEEBY  AND  JAMIE. 

By  the  banks  of  the  Quharity  on  a  sum- 
mer day  I  have  seen  a  barefooted  girl  gaze 
at  the  running  water  until  tears  filled  her 
eyes.  That  was  the  birth  of  romance. 
Whether  this  love  be  but  a  beautiful  dream 
I  cannot  say,  but  this  we  see,  that  it  comes 
to  all,  and  colors  the  whob  future  life  with 
gold.  Leeby  must  have  dreamed  it,  but  I 
did  not  know  her  then.  I  have  heard  of  a 
man  who  would  have  taken  her  far  away 
into  a  country  where  the  corn  is  yellow 
when  it  is  still  green  with  us,  but  she  would 
not  leave  her  mother,  nor  was  it  him  she 
saw  in  her  dream.     From  her  earliest  days,. 


LEEBY    AND    JAMIE.  169 

Avhen  she  was  still  a  child  staggering  round 
the  garden  with  Jamie  in  her  arms,  her  duty 
lay  before  her,  straight  as  the  burying- 
ground  road.  Jess  had  need  of  her  in  the 
little  home  at  the  top  of  the  brae,  where 
God,  looking  down  upon  her  as  she 
scrubbed  and  gossiped  and  sat  up  all  night 
with  her  ailing  mother,  and  never  missed 
the  prayer  meeting,  and  adored  the  minis- 
ter, did  not  perhaps  think  her  the  least  of 
His  handmaids.  Her  years  were  less  than 
thirty  when  He  took  her  away,  but  she  had 
few  days  that  were  altogether  dark.  Those 
who  bring  sunshine  to  the  lives  of  others 
cannot  keep  it  from  themselves. 

The  love  Leeby  bore  for  Jamie  was  such 
that,  in  their  younger  days,  it  shamed  him.. 
Other  laddies  knew  of  it,  and  l^ung  it  at 
him  until  he  dared  Leeby  to  let  on  in  pub- 
lic that  he  and  she  were  related. 

"  Hoo  is  your  lass?  "  they  used  to  cry  to 
him,  inventing  a  new  game. 

"  I  saw  Leeby  lookin'  for  ye,"  they  would 
say;  "  she's  w^earyin'  for  ye  to  gang  an'  play 
wi'  her." 

Then,  if  they  were  not  much  bigger  boys 


lyo  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

than  himself,  Jamie  got  them  against  the 
dyke  and  hit  them  hard  until  they  publicly 
owned  to  knowing  that  she  was  his  sister, 
and  that  he  was  not  fond  of,  her. 

"  It  distressed  him  mair  than  ye  could 
believe,  though,"  Jess  has  told  me;  "an* 
when  he  came  hame  he  would  greet  an*" 
say  'at  Leeby  disgraced  him." 

Leeby,  of  course,  suffered  for  her  too 
obvious  afTection. 

"  I  wonder  'at  ye  dinna  try  to  control 
yersel',"  Jamie  would  say  to  her,  as  he  grew 
bigger. 

"  Am  sure,"  said  Leeby,  "  I  never  gie  ye 
a  look  if  there's  onybody  there." 

"A  look!  You're  ay  lookin'  at  me  sae 
fond-like  'at  I  dinna  ken  what  wy  to  turn."^ 

"  Week  I  canna  help  it,"  said  Leeby,. 
probal)ly  beginning  to  whimper. 

If  Jamie  was  in  a  very  bad  temper  he  left 
her,  after  this,  to  her  own  reflections;  but 
he  was  naturally  soft-hearted. 

"  Am  no  tellin'  ye  no  to  care  for  me,"  he 
told  her,  "  but  juist  to  keep  it  mair  to  yer- 
sel". Naebody  would  ken  frae  me  'at  am. 
fond  o'  ye." 


LEEBY    AND    JAMIE.  I7I 

"  Mebbe  yer  no?  "  said  Leeby. 

"Ay,  am  I;  but  I  can  keep  it  secret. 
When  we're  in  the  hoose  am  juist  richt  fond 
o'  ye." 

"  Do  ye  love  me,  Jamie?  " 

Jamie  waggled  his  head  in  irritation. 

"  Love,"  he  said,  "  is  an  awful-like  word 
to  use  when  fowk's  weel.  Ye  shouldna 
spier  sic  annoyin'  queistions." 

"  But  if  ye  juist  say  ye  love  me  I'll  never 
let  on  again  afore  fowk  'at  yer  onything  to 
me  ava." 

"  Ay,  ye  often  say  that." 

"  Do  ye  no  believe  my  word?  " 

"  I  believe  fine  you  mean  what  ye  say, 
but  ye  forget  yersel'  when  the  time  comes." 

"  Juist  trv  me  this  time." 

"  Weel,  tiien,  I  do." 

"  Do  what?  "  asked  the  greedy  Leeby. 

"  What  ye  said." 

"  I  said  love." 

"  Weel,"  said  Jamie,  "  I  do't." 

"  What  do  ye  do?     Say  the  word." 

"  Na,"  said  Jamie,  "  I  winna  say  the 
"word.     It's  no  a  word  to  say,  but  I  do't." 

That  was  all  she  could  get  out  of  him,  un- 


172  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

less  he  was  stricken  with  remorse,  when  he 
even  went  the  length  of  saying  the  word. 

"  Leeby  kent  perfectly  weel,"  Jess  has 
said,  "  'at  it  was  a  trial  to  Jamie  to  tak  her 
ony  gait,  an'  I  often  used  to  say  to  her  'at 
I  wondered  at  her  want  o'  pride  in  priggin' 
wi'  him.  Ay,  but  if  she  could  juist  get  a 
promise  wrung  oot  o'  him,  she  didna  care 
hoo  muckle  she  had  to  prig.  Syne  they 
quarreled,  an'  ane  or  baith  o'  them  grat 
[cried]  afore  they  made  it  up.  I  mind 
when  Jamie  went  to  the  fishin'  Leeby  was 
aye  terrible  keen  to  get  wi'  him;  but  ye  see 
he  wouldna  be  seen  gaen  through  the  toon 
wi'  her,  '  If  ye  let  me  gang,'  she  said  to 
him,  '  I'll  no  seek  to  go  through  the  toon 
wi'  ye.  Na,  I'll  gang  roond  by  the  Roods 
an'  you  can  tak  the  buryin'  ground  road,  so 
as  we  can  meet  on  the  hill'  Yes,  Leeby 
was  willin'  to  agree  wi'  a'  that,  juist  to  get 
gaen  wi'  him.  I've  seen  lassies  makkin 
themsel's  sma'  for  lads  often  enough,  but  I 
never  saw  ane  'at  prigged  so  muckle  wi' 
her  ain  brother.  Na,  it's  other  lassies' 
brothers  they  like,  as  a  rule." 

"  But  though  Jamie  was  terrible  reserved 


LEEBY    AND    JAMIE.  l"];^ 

aboot  it,"  said  Leeby,  "  he  was  as  fond  o' 
me  as  ever  I  was  o'  him.  Ye  mind  the  time 
I  had  the  measles,  mother?  " 

•'  Am  no  hkely  to  forget  it,  Leeby,"  said 
Jess,  "  an'  you  bhnd  wi'  them  for  three  days. 
Ay,  ay,  Jamie  was  richt  taen  up  aboot  ye. 
I  mind  he  broke  open  his  pirly  [money 
box],  an'  bocht  a  ha'penny  worth  o'  some- 
thing to  ye  every  day." 

"An'  ye  hinna  forgotten  the  stick?  " 
"  'Deed  no,  I  hinna.  Ye  see,"  Jess  ex- 
plained to  me,  "  Leeby  was  lyin'  ben  the 
hoose,  an'  Jamie  wasna  allowed  to  gang 
near  her  for  fear  o'  infection.  Weel,  he  got 
a  lang  stick — it  was  a  pea-stick — an'  put  it 
aneath  the  door  an  waggled  it.  Ay,  he 
did  that  a  curran  times  every  day,  juist  to 
let  her  see  he  was  thinkin'  o'  her." 

"  Mair  than  that,"  said  Leeby,  "  he  cried 
cot  'at  he  loved  me." 

"  Ay,  but  juist  aince,"  Jess  said,  "  I  dinna 
mind  o't  but  aince.  It  was  the  time  the 
doctor  came  late,  an'  Jamie,  bein'  v.-auk- 
ened  by  him,  thoclit  ye  was  deein'.  I  mind 
as  if  it  was  yesterday  hoo  he  cam  runnin'  to 
the    door   an'    cried   oot,    '  I   do    love   ye, 


374  A    V/INDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

Leeby;  I  love  ye  richt.'  The  doctor  got 
a  start  when  he  heard  the  voice,  but  he 
jaughed  loud  when  he  understood." 

"  He  had  nae  business,  though,"  said 
Leeby,  "  to  tell  onybody." 

"  He  was  a  rale  clever  man,  the  doctor," 
Jess  explained  to  me,  "  ay,  he  kent  me  as 
weel  as  though  he'd  gaen  through  me  wi'  a 
lichted  candle.  It  got  oot  through  him, 
an'  the  young  billies  took  to  sayin'  to 
Jamie,  '  Ye  do  love  her,  Jamie;  ay,  ye  love 
her  richt.'  The  only  regular  fecht  I  ever 
kent  Jamie  hae  was  wi'  a  lad  'at  cried  that 
to  him.  It  was  Bowlegs  Christy's  laddie. 
Ay,  but  when  she  got  better  Jamie  blamed 
Leeby." 

"  He  no  only  blamed  me,"  said  Leeby, 
"  but  he  wanted  me  to  pay  him  back  a'  the 
bawbees  he  had  spent  on  me." 

"  Ay,  an'  I  sepad  he  got  them,  too,"  said 
Jess. 

In  time  Jamie  became  a  barber  in  Tillie- 
drum,  trudging  many  weary  miles  there 
and  back  twice  a  day  that  he  might  sleep  at 
home,  trudging  bravely  I  was  going  to  say, 
-but  it  was  what  he  was  born  to,  and  there 


LEEBY    AND    JAMIE.  175" 

was  hardly  an  alternative.  This  was  the 
time  I  saw  most  of  him,  and  he  and  Leeby 
were  often  in  my  thoughts.  There  is  as  ter- 
rible a  bubble  in  the  little  kettle  as  on  the 
caldron  of  the  world,  and  some  of  the  scenes 
between  Jamie  and  Leeby  were  great  trage- 
dies, comedies,  what  you  will,  until  the  ket- 
tle was  taken  off  the  fire.  Hers  was  the 
more  placid  temper;  indeed,  only  in  one 
way  could  Jamie  suddenly  rouse  her  to 
fury.  That  was  when  he  hinted  that  she 
had  a  large  number  of  frocks.  Leeby 
knew  that  there  could  never  be  more  than  a 
Sabbath  frock  and  an  everyday  gown  for 
her,  both  of  the  mother's  making,  but 
Jamie's  insinuations  were  more  than  she 
could  bear.  Then  I  have  seen  her  seize  and 
shake  him.  I  know  from  Jess  that  Leeby 
cried  herself  hoarse  the  day  Joey  was 
buried,  because  her  little  black  frock  was 
not  ready  for  wear. 

Until  he  went  to  Tilliedrum  Jamie  had 
been  more  a  stay-at-home  boy  than  most. 
The  warmth  of  Jess's  love  had  something  to 
do  with  keeping  his  heart  aglow,  but  more,, 
I   think,   he   owed   to   Leeby.     Tilliedrum 


.176  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

was  his  introduction  to  the  world,  and  for 
a  Httle  it  took  his  head.  1  was  in  the  house 
the  Sabbath  day  that  he  refused  to  go  to 
church. 

He  went  out  in  the  forenoon  to  meet  the 
Tilhedrum  lads,  who  were  to  take  him  off 
for  a  hoHday  in  a  cart.  Hendry  was  more 
wrathful  than  I  remember  ever  to  have  seen 
him,  though  I  have  heard  how  he  did  with 
the  lodger  who  broke  the  Lord's  ^  Day. 
This  lodger  was  a  tourist  who  thought,  in 
folly  surely  rather  than  in  hardness  of  heart, 
to  test  the  religious  convictions  of  an  Auld 
Licht  by  insisting  on  paying  his  bill  on  a 
Sabbath  morning.  He  offered  the  money 
to  Jess,  with  the  warning  that,  if  she  did 
not  take  it  now,  she  might  never  see  it. 
Jess  was  so  kind  and  good  to  her  lodgers 
that  he  could  not  have  known  her  long  who 
troubled  her  with  this  poor  trick.  She  was 
sorely  in  need  at  the  time,  and  entreated  the 
thoughtless  man  to  have  some  pity  on  her, 

"  Now  or  never,"  he  said,  holding  out 
the  money. 

"  Put  it  on  the  dresser,"  said  Jess  at  last, 
^'  an'  I'll  get  it  the  morn." 


LEEBY    AND    JAMIE.  lyf 

The  few  shillings  were  laid  on  the 
dresser,  where  they  remained  unfingered 
until  Hendry,  with  Leeby  and  Jamie,  came 
in  from  church. 

"  What  siller's  that?  "  asked  Hendry,  and 
then  Jess  confessed  what  she  had  done. 

"  I  wonder  at  ye,  woman,"  said  Hendry 
sternly;  and  lifting  the  money  he  climbed 
up  to  the  attic  with  it. 

He  pushed  open  the  door,  and  con- 
fronted the  lodger. 

"  Tak  back  yer  siller,"  he  said,  laying  it 
on  the  table,  "  an'  leave  my  hoose.  Man, 
you're  a  pitiable  crittur  to  tak  the  chance, 
when  I  was  oot,  o'  playin'  upon  the  poverty 
o'  an  onweel  woman." 

It  was  with  such  onwonted  severity  as 
this  that  Hendry  called  upon  Jamie  to  fol- 
low him  to  church;  but  the  boy  went  off, 
and  did  not  return  till  dusk,  defiant  and 
miserable.  Jess  had  been  so  terrified  that 
she  forgave  him  everything  for  sight  of  his 
face,  and  Hendry  prayed  for  him  at  family 
worship  with  too  much  unction.  But 
Leeby  cried  as  if  her  tender  heart  would 
break.     For    a   long   time   Jamie    refused 


^1' 


A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 


to  look  at  her,  but  at  last  he  broke 
down. 

"  If  ye  go  on  like  that,"  he  said,  "  I'll 
gang  awa  oot  an'  droon  mysel',  or  be  a 
sojer." 

This  was  no  uncommon  threat  of  his, 
and  sometimes,  when  he  went  off,  banging 
the  door  violently,  she  ran  after  him  and 
brought  him  back.  This  time  she  only 
wept  the  more,  and  so  both  went  to  bed  in 
misery.  It  was  after  midnight  that  Jamie 
rose  and  crept  to  Leeby's  bedside.  Leeby 
was  shaking  the  bed  in  her  agony.  Jess 
heard  what  they  said. 

"  Leeby,"  said  Jamie,  "  dinna  greet,  an' 
I'll  never  do't  again." 

He  put  his  arms  round  her,  and  she 
Icissed  him  passionately. 

"  Oh,  Jamie!  "  she  said,  "  hae  ye  prayed 
to  God  to  forgie  ye?  " 

Jamie  did  not  speak. 

"  If  ye  was  to  die  this  nicht,"  cried 
Leeby,  "  an'  you  no  made  it  up  wi'  God, 
ye  wouldna  gang  to  heaven.  Jamie,  I 
canna  sleep  till  ye've  made  it  up  wi'  God." 

But    Jamie     still    hung    back.     Leeby 


LEEBY    AND    JAMIE.  I79 

slipped  from  her  bed,  and  went  down  on 
her  knees. 

"O  God!  O  dear  God!"  she  cried, 
"  mak  Jamie  to  pray  to  you!  " 

Then  Jamie  went  down  on  his  knees,  too, 
and  they  made  it  up  with  God  together. 

This  is  a  Httle  thing  for  me  to  remember 
all  these  years,  and  yet  how  fresh  and  sweet 
it  keeps  Leeby  in  my  memory. 

Away  up  in  the  glen,  my  lonely  school- 
house  lying  deep,  as  one  might  say,  in  a 
sea  of  snow,  I  had  many  hours  in  the  years 
long  by  for  thinking  of  my  friends  in 
Thrums  and  mapping  out  the  future  of 
Leeby  and  Jamie.  I  saw  Hendry  and  Jess 
taken  to  the  churchyard,  and  Leeby  left 
alone  in  the  house.  I  saw  Jamie  fulfill  his 
promise  to  his  mother,  and  take  Leeby, 
that  stainless  young  woman,  far  away  to 
London,  where  they  had  a  home  together. 
Ah,  but  these  were  only  the  idle  dreams  of 
a  dominie.     The  Lord  willed  it  otherwise. 


380  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


A  TALE  OF  A  GLOVE. 


So  long  as  Jamie  was  not  the  lad,  Jess 
twinkled  gleefully  over  tales  of  sweetheart- 
ing.  There  was  little  Kitty  Lamby  who 
used  to  skip  in  of  an  evening,  and,  squat- 
ting on  a  stool  near  the  window,  un\Vind 
the  roll  of  her  enormities.  A  wheedling 
thing  she  was,  with  an  ambition  to  drive 
men  crazy,  but  my  presence  killed  the  gos- 
sip on  her  tongue,  though  I  liked  to  look 
at  her.  When  I  entered,  the  wag  at  the 
wa'  clock  had  again  possession  of  the  kit- 
chen. I  never  heard  more  than  the  end  of 
a  sentence: 

"  An'  did  he  really  say  he  would  fling 
himsel'  into  the  dam,  Kitty?  " 

Or — "  True  as  death,  Jess,  he  kissed 
me." 

Then  I  wandered  away  from  the  kitchen, 
where  I  was  not  wanted,  and  marveled  to 
know  that  Jess  of  the  tender  heart  laughed 
-most  merrily  when  he  really  did  say  that  he 


A    TALE    OF    A    GLOVE.  l8l 

was  going  straight  to  the  dam.  As  nobody 
was  found  in  the  dam  in  those  days,  who- 
ever he  was  he  must  have  thought  better 
of  it. 

But  let  Kitty,  or  any  other  maid,  cast  ? 
gHnting  eye  on  Jamie,  then  Jess  no  longer 
smiled.  If  he  returned  the  glance  she  sat 
silent  in  her  chair  till  Leeby  laughed  away 
her  fears. 

"  Jamie's  no  the  kind,  mother,"  Leeby 
would  say.  "  Na,  he's  quiet,  but  he  sees 
through  them.  They  dinna  draw  his  leg 
[get  over  him]." 

"  Ye  never  can  tell,  Leeby.  The  laddies 
'at's  maist  ill  to  get  sometimes  gangs  up 
in  a  flame  a'  at  aince,  hke  a  bit  o'  paper." 

"  Ay,  weel,  at  ony  rate  Jamie's  no  on  fire 
yet." 

Though  clever  beyond  her  neighbors, 
Jess  lost  all  her  sharpness  if  they  spoke  of 
a  lassie  for  Jamie. 

"  I  warrant,"  Tibbie  Birse  said  one  day  in 
my  hearing,  "  'at  there's  some  leddy  in 
London  he's  thinkin'  o'.  Ay,  he's  been  a 
guid  laddie  to  ye,  but  i'  the  coorse  o'  nature 
he'll  be  settlin'  dune  soon." 


l82  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

Jess  did  not  answer,  but  she  was  a  pic- 
ture of  woe. 

''  Yer  lettin'  what  Tibbie  Birse  said  he 
on  yer  mind,"  Leeby  remarked,  when  Tib- 
bie was  gone.  "  What  can  it  maiter  what 
she  thinks?  " 

"  I  canna  help  it,  Leeby,"  said  Jess. 
"  Na,  an'  I  canna  bear  to  think  o'  Jamie 
bein'  marit.  It  woukl  lay  me  low  to  loss, 
my  laddie.     No  yet,  no  yet." 

"  But.  mother,"  said  Leeby,  quoting- 
from  the  minister  at  weddings,  ''  ye 
wouldna  be  lossin'  a  son,  but  juist  gainin' 
a  dochter." 

"  Dinna  haver,  Leeby,"  answered  Jess, 
*'  I  want  nane  o'  thae  dochters;  na,  na." 

This  talk  took  place  while  we  were  still 
awaiting  Jamie's  coming.  He  had  only 
been  with  us  one  day  when  Jess  made  a  ter- 
rible discovery.  She  was  looking  so 
mournful  when  I  saw  her,  that  I  asked 
Leeby  what  was  wrong. 

"  She's  brocht  it  on  hersel'."  said  Leeby. 
"  Ye  see  she  was  up  sune  i'  the  mornin'  to 
bqgin  to  the  darnin'  o'  Jamie's  stockin's  an'" 
to  warm  his  sark  at  the  lire  afore  he  put 


A    TALE    OF    A    GLOVE.  183. 

it  on.  He  woke  up,  an'  cried  to  her  'at  he 
wasna  accustomed  to  haen  his  things 
warmed  for  him.  Ay,  he  cried  it  oot  fell 
thrawn,  so  she  took  it  into  her  head  'at 
there  was  something  in  his  pouch  he  didna 
■want  her  to  see.  She  was  even  onaisy  last 
nicht." 

I   asked   what   had   aroused   Jess's   sus- 
picions last  night. 

"  Ou,  ye  would  notice  'at  she  sat  de- 
vourin'  him  wi'  her  een,  she  was  so  lifted  up 
at  haen  'im  again.  Weel,  she  says  noo 
'at  she  saw  'im  twa  or  three  times  put  his 
hand  in  his  pouch  as  if  he  was  findin'  to 
mak  sure  'at  something  was  safe.  So  when 
he  fell  asleep  again  this  mornin'  she  got 
hand  o'  his  jacket  to  see  if  there  was  ony- 
thing  in't.  I  advised  her  no  to  do't,  but 
she  couldna  help  hersel'.  She  put  in  her 
hand,  an'  pu'd  it  oot.  That's  what's  mak- 
kin'  her  look  sae  ill." 

"  But  what  was  it  she  found?  " 

"  Did  I  no  tell  ye?  I'm  gaen  dottle,  I 
think.  It  was  a  glove — a  woman's  glove 
— in  a  bit  paper.  Ay,  though  she's  sittin' 
-stili  she's  near  frantic." 


184  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

I  said  I  supposed  Jess  had  put  the  glove 
back  in  Jamie's  pocket. 

"  Na,"  said  Leeby,  "  'deed  no.  She 
wanted  to  fling  it  on  the  back  o'  the  fire, 
but  I  wouldna  let  her." 

Later  in  the  day  I  remarked  to  Leeby 
that  Jamie  was  very  dull. 

"  He's  missed  it,"  she  explained. 

"  Has  anyone  mentioned  it  to  him,"  I 
asked,  "  or  has  he  inquired  about  it?  " 

"  Na,"  said  Leeby,  **  there  hasna  been  a 
syllup  [syllable]  aboot  it.  My  mother's 
fleid  to  mention't.  an'  he  doesna  like  ta 
speak  aboot  it  either." 

"  Perhaps  he  thinks  he  has  lost  it?  " 

"  Nae  fear  o'  him,"  Leeby  said.  "  Na, 
he  kens  fine  wha  has't." 

I  never  knew  how  Jamie  came  by  the 
glove,  nor  whether  it  had  originally  be- 
longed to  her  who  made  him  forget  the 
window  at  the  top  of  the  brae.  At  the 
time  I  looked  on  as  at  play-acting,  rejoic- 
ing in  the  happy  ending.  Alas!  in  the  real 
life  how  are  we  to  know  when  we  have 
reached  an  end? 

But  this  glove,  I  say,  may  not  have  been 


A    TALE    OF    A    GLOVE.  185 

that  woman's,  and  if  it  was,  she  had  not 
then  bedeviled  him.  He  was  too  sheepish 
to  demand  it  back  from  his  mother,  and 
already  he  cared  for  it  too  much  to  laugh 
at  Jess's  theft  with  Leeby.  So  it  was  that 
a  curious  game  at  chess  was  played  with  the 
glove,  the  players  a  silent  pair. 

Jamie  cared  little  to  read  books,  but  on 
the  day  following  Jess's  discovery,  I  found 
him  on  his  knees  in  the  attic,  looking 
through  mine.  A  little  box,  without  a  lid, 
held  them  all,  but  they  seemed  a  great 
library  to  him. 

"  There's  readin'  for  a  lifetime  in  them," 
he  said.  "  I  was  juist  takkin'  a  look 
through  them." 

His  face  was  guilty,  however,  as  if  his 
hand  had  been  caught  in  a  money-bag,  and 
I  wondered  what  had  enticed  the  lad  to  my 
books.  I  was  still  standing  pondering 
when  Leeby  ran  up  the  stair;  she  was  so 
active  that  she  generally  ran,  and  she 
grudged  the  time  lost  in  recovering  her 
breath. 

"  I'll  put  yer  books  richt,"  she  said,  mak- 
ing her  word  good  as  she  spoke.     "  I  kent 


l86  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

Jamie  had  been  ransackin'  up  here,  though 
he  came  up  rale  canny.  Ay,  ye  would 
notice  he  was  in  his  stockin'  soles." 

I  had  not  noticed  this,  but  I  remembered 
now  his  slipping  from  the  room  very  softly. 
If  he  wanted  a  book,  I  told  Leeby,  he  could 
have  got  it  without  any  display  of  cunning. 

"  It's  no  a  book  he's  lookin'  for,"  she 
said,  "  na,  it's  his  glove." 

The  time  of  day  was  early  for  Leeby  ta 
gossip,  but  I  detained  her  for  a  moment. 

"  Aly  mother's  hodded  [hid]  it,"  she  ex- 
plained, "  an  he  winna  speir  nae  queistions. 
But  he's  lookin'  for't.  He  w^as  ben  in  the 
room  searchin'  the  drawers  when  I  was  up 
i'  the  toon  in  the  forenoon.  Ye  see  he  pre- 
tends no  to  be  carin'  afore  me,  an'  though 
my  mother's  sittin'  sae  quiet-like  at  the 
window  she's  hearkenin'  a'  the  time.  Ay,, 
an'  he  thocht  I  had  hod  it  up  here." 

But  where,  I  asked,  was  the  glove  hid. 

"  I  ken  nae  mair  than  yersel',"  said 
Leeby.  "  ]\Iy  mother's  gien  to  hoddin' 
things.  She  has  a  place  aneath  the  bed 
whaur  she  keeps  the  siller,  an'  she's  no 
speakin'  aboot  the  glove  to  me  noo,  be- 


A    TALE    OF    A    GLOVE.  IQJ 

cause  she  thinks  Jamie  an'  me's  in  comp 
[company].  I  speired  at  her  whaur  she 
had  hod  it,  but  she  juist  said,  '  What  would 
I  be  doin'  hoddin't? '  She'll  never  admit 
to  me  'at  she  hods  the  siller  either." 

Next  day  Leeby  came  to  me  with  the 
latest  news. 

"  He's  found  it,"  she  said,  "  ay,  he's  got 
the  glove  again.  Ye  see  what  put  him  on 
the  wrang  scent  was  a  notion  'at  I  had  put 
it  some  gait.  He  kent  'at  if  she'd  hod 
it,  the  kitchen  maun  be  the  place,  but 
he  thocht  she'd  gien  it  to  me  to  hod.  He 
came  upon't  by  accident.  It  was  aneath 
the  paddin'  o'  her  chair." 

Here,  I  thought,  was  the  end  of  the  glove 
incident,  but  I  was  mistaken.  There  were 
no  presses  or  drawers  with  locks  in  the 
house,  and  Jess  got  hold  of  the  glove  again. 
I  suppose  she  had  reasoned  out  no  line  of 
action.  She  merely  hated  the  thought  that 
Jamie  should  have  a  woman's  glove  in  his 
possession. 

"  She  beats  a'  wi'  'cuteness,"  Leeby  said 
to  me.  "  Jamie  didna  put  the  glove  back 
in  his  pouch.     Na,  he  kens  her  ower  weel 


l8S  A    WINDOW    IX    THRUMS. 

by  this  time.  She  was  up,  though,  lang- 
afore  he  v,as  wauken.  an'  she  gaed  almost 
strecht  to  the  place  whaur  he  had  hod  it.  I 
believe  she  lay  waukin  a'  nicht  thinkin'  oot 
whaur  it  would  be.  Ay,  it  was  aneath  the 
mattress.  I  saw  her  hoddin't  i'  the  back 
o'  the  drawer,  but  I  didnL  let  on." 

I  quite  believed  Leeby  when  she  told  me 
afterward  that  she  had  watched  Jamie  feel- 
ing beneath  the  mattress. 

"  He  had  a  face,"  she  said,  "  I  assure  ye, 
he  had  a  face,  when  he  discovered  the  glove 
was  gone  again." 

"  He  maun  be  terrible  taen  up  aboot  it,"^ 
Jess  said  to  Leeby,  "or  he  wouldna  keep 
it  aneath  the  mattress." 

■■  Od,"  said  Leeby,  "  it  was  yersel'  'at 
drove  him  to't." 

Again  Jamie  recovered  his  property,  and 
again  Jess  got  hold  of  it.  This  time  he 
looked  in  vain.  I  learned  the  fate  of  the 
glove  from  Leeby. 

■'  Ye  mind  'at  she  keepit  him.  at  hame 
frae  the  kirk  on  Sabbath,  because  he  had  a 
cauld? "  Leeby  said.  "  Ay,  me  or  my 
father  would  hae  a  gey  ill  cauld  afore  she 


A    TALE    OF    A    GLOVE.  189 

would  let's  bide  at  hame  frae  the  kirk;  but 
Jamie's  different.  Weel,  mair  than  aince 
she's  been  near  speakin'  to  'im  aboot  the 
glove,  but  she  grew  fleid  aye.  She  was  sac 
terrified  there  was  something  in't. 

"  On  Sabbath,  though,  she  had  him  to 
hersel',  an'  he  wasna  so  bright  as  usual. 
She  sat  wi'  the  Bible  on  her  lap,  pretendin* 
to  read,  but  a'  the  time  she  was  takkin' 
keeks  [glances]  at  him.  I  dinna  ken  'at 
he  was  broodin'  ower  the  glove,  but  she 
thocht  he  was,  an'  juist  afore  the  kirk  came 
oot  she  couldna  stand  it  nae  langer.  She 
put  her  hand  in  her  pouch,  an'  pu'd  oot  the 
glove,  wi"  the  paper  round  it,  juist  as  it 
had  been  when  she  cfime  upon't. 

"  '  That's  yours,  Jamie,'  she  said;  '  it  was 
ill-dune  o'  me  to  tak  it,  but  I  couldna  help 
it.' 

"  Jamie  put  oot  his  hand,  an'  syne  he 
drew't  back.  '  It's  no  a  thing  o'  nae  con- 
sequence, mother.'  he  said. 

"  '  Wha  is  she,  Jamie?  '  my  mother  said. 

"  He  turned  awa  his  heid — so  she  telt 
me.  '  It's  a  lassie  in  London.'  he  said,  '  I 
dinna  ken  her  muckle.' 


ipO  A    WINDOW    1\    THRUMS. 

"  '  Ye  maun  ken  her  weel,'  my  mother 
persisted,  '  to  be  carryin'  aboot  her  glove; 
I'm  dootin'  yer  gey  fond  o'  her,  Jamie?  ' 

^' '  Na,'  said  Jamie,  '  am  no.  There's  no 
naebody  I  care  for  like  yersel',  mother.' 

"  '  Ye  wouldna  carry  aboot  onything  o' 
mine,  Jamie,'  my  mother  said;  but  he  says, 

*  Oh,  mother!  I  carry  aboot  yer  face  wi'  me 
aye;  an'  sometimes  at  nicht  I  kind  o'  greet 
to  think  o'  ye.' 

"  Ay,  after  that  I've  nae  doot  he  was  sit- 
tin'  wi'  his  airms  aboot  her.  She  didna  tell 
me  that,  but  weel  he  kens  it's  what  she 
likes,  an'  she  maks  nae  pretense  o'  it's  no 
bein'.  But  for  a'  he  said  an'  did,  she 
noticed  him  put  the  glove  back  in  his  in- 
side pouch. 

"  *  It's  wrang  o'  me,  Jamie,'  she  said, 

*  but  I  canna  bear  to  think  o'  ye  carryin' 
that  aboot  sae  carefu'.    No,  I  canna  help  it.' 

"  Weel,  Jamie,  the  crittur,  took  it  oot  o' 
his  pouch,  an'  kind  o'  hesitated.  Syne  he 
lays't  on  the  back  o'  the  fire,  an'  they  sat 
thegither  glowerin'  at  it. 

"  '  Noo,  mother,'  he  says,  *  you're  satis- 
fied, are  ye  no? ' 


THE    LAST    NIGHT.  I9I 

"  Ay,"  Leeby  ended  her  story,  "  she  said 
she  was  satisfied.  But  she  saw  'at  he  laid 
it  on  the  fire  fell  fond-like." 


CHAPTER   XX. 

THE  LAST  NIGHT. 

"  JuiST  another  sax  nichts,  Jamie,"  Jess 
would  say  sadly.  "  Juist  fower  nichts  noo, 
an'  you'll  be  awa."  Even  as  she  spoke 
seemed  to  come  the  last  night. 

The  last  night!  Reserve  slipped  un- 
heeded to  the  floor.  Hendry  wandered 
ben  and  but  the  house,  and  Jamie  sat  at  the 
window  holding  his  mother's  hand.  You 
must  walk  softly  now  if  vou  would  cross 
that  humble  threshold.  I  stop  at  the  door. 
Then,  as  now,  F  was  a  lonely  man,  and 
when  the  last  night  came  the  attic  was  the 
place  for  me. 

This  family  affection — how  good  and 
beautiful  it  is.  Men  and  maids  love,  and 
after  many  years  they  may  rise  to  this.     It 


192  A    WINDOW   TN    THRUMS. 

is  the  grand  proof  of  the  goodness  in 
human  nature,  for  it  means  that  the  more 
we  see  of  each  other  the  more  we  find  that 
is  lovable.  If  you  would  cease  to  dislike  a 
man,  try  to  get  nearer  his  heart. 

Leeby  had  no  longer  any  excuse  for 
bustling  about.  Everything  was  ready — 
too  soon.  Hendry  had  been  to  the  fish- 
cadger  in  the  square  to  get  a  bervie  for 
Jamie's  supper,  and  Jamie  had  eaten  it,  try- 
ing to  look  as  if  it  made  him  happier.  His 
little  box  was  packed  and  strapped,  and 
stood  terribly  conspicuous  against  the 
dresser.    Jess  had  packed  it  herself. 

"  Ye  mauna  trachle  [trouble]  yersel',. 
mother,"  Jamie  said,  when  she  had  the 
empty  box  pulled  toward  her. 

Leeby  was  wiser. 

"  Let  her  do't,"  she  whispered,  "  it  '11 
keep  her  frae  broodin'." 

Jess  tied  ends  of  yarn  round  the  stock- 
ings to  keep  them  in  a  little  bundle  by 
themselves.  So  she  did  with  all  the  other 
articles. 

"  No  'at  it's  ony  great  afifair,"  she  said, 
for  on  the  last  night  they  were  all  thirsting 


THE    LAST    NIGHT.  I93 

to  do  something  for  Jamie  that  would  be  a 
^reat  affair  to  him. 

"  Ah,  ye  would  wonder,  mother,"  Jamie 
said,  "  when  I  open  my  box  an'  find  a'thing 
tied  up  wi'  strings  sae  careful,  it  a'  comes 
back  to  me  wi'  a  rush  wha  did  it,  an'  am  as 
fond  o'  thae  strings  as  though  they  were  a 
grand  present.  There's  the  pocky  [bag] 
ye  gae  me  to  keep  sewin'  things  in.  I  get 
the  wifie  I  lodge  wi'  to  sew  to  me,  but  often 
when  I  come  upon  the  pocky  I  sit  an'  look 
at  it." 

Two  chairs  were  backed  to  the  fire,  with 
underclothing  hanging  upside  down  on 
them.  From  the  string  over  the  fireplace 
dangled  two  pairs  of  much-darned  stock- 
ings. 

"  Ye'Il  put  on  baith  thae  pair  o'  stockin's, 
Jamie,"  said  Jess,  "  juist  to  please  me?  " 

When  he  arrived  he  had  rebelled  against 
the  extra  clothing. 

"  Ay,  will  I,  mother?  "  he  said  now. 

Jess  put  her  hand  fondly  through  his 
ugly  hair.  How  handsome  she  thought 
him. 

"  Ye  have  a  fine  brow,  Jamie,"  she  said. 


194  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  I  mind  the  day  ye  was  born  sayin'  to  my- 
sel'  'at  ye  had  a  fine  brow." 

"  But  ye  thocht  he  was  to  be  a  lassie, 
mother,"  said  Leeby. 

"  Na,  Leeby,  I  didna.  I  kept  sayin'  I 
thocht  he  would  be  a  lassie  because  I  was 
fleid  he  would  be;  but  a'  the  time  I  had  a 
presentiment  he  would  be  a  laddie.  It  was 
wi'  Joey  deein'  sae  sudden,  an'  I  took  on 
sae  terrible  aboot  'im  'at  I  thocht  all  alang- 
the  Lord  would  gie  me  another  laddie." 

"  Ay,  I  wanted  'im  to  be  a  laddie  mysel'," 
said  Hendr}%  "  so  as  he  could  tak  Joey's 
place." 

Jess's  head  jerked  back  involuntarily, 
and  Jamie  may  have  felt  her  hand  shake, 
for  he  said  in  a  voice  out  of  Hendry's 
hearing: 

"  I  never  took  Joey's  place  wi'  ye, 
mother." 

Jess  pressed  his  hand  tightly  in  her  two 
worn  palms,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"  Jamie  was  richt  like  Joey  when  he  was 
a  bairn,"  Hendry  said. 

Again  Jess's  head  moved,  but  still  she 
was  silent. 


THE    LAST    NIGHT.  I95 

"  They  were  sae  like,"  continued  Hen- 
dry, "  'at  often  I  called  Jamie  by  Joey's 
name." 

Jess  looked  at  her  husband,  and  her 
mouth  opened  and  shut. 

"  I  canna  mind  'at  you  ever  did  that?  '* 
Hendry  said. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Na,"  said  Hendry,  "  you  never  mixed 
them  up.  I  dinna  think  ye  ever  missed 
Joey  sae  sair  as  I  did." 

Leeby  went  ben,  and  stood  in  the  room 
in  the  dark;  Jamie  knew  why. 

"  I'll  just  gang  ben  an'  speak  to  Leeby 
for  a  meenute,"  he  said  to  his  mother; 
"  I'll  no  be  lang." 

"  Ay,  do  that,  Jamie,"  said  Jess.  "  What 
Leeby's  been  to  me  nae  tongue  can  tell. 
Ye  canna  bear  to  hear  me  speak,  I  ken,  o' 
the  time  when  Hendry  an'  me  '11  be  awa, 
but,  Jamie,  when  that  time  comes  ye'll  no 
forget  Leeby?  " 

"  I  winna,  mother,  I  winna,"  said  Jamie. 
"  There  '11  never  be  a  roof  ower  me  'at's  no 
hers  too." 

He  went  ben  and  shut  the  door.     I  do 


1^5  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS, 

not  know  what  he  and  Leeby  said.  Many 
a  time  since  their  earHest  youth  had  these 
two  been  closeted  together,  often  to  make 
up  their  Httle  quarrels  in  each  other's  arms. 
They  remained  a  long  time  in  the  room, — 
the  shabby  room  of  which  Jess  and  Leeby 
were  so  proud, — and  whatever  might  be 
their  fears  about  their  mother  they  were  not 
anxious  for  themselves.  Leeby  was  feel- 
ing lusty  and  well,  and  she  could  not  know 
that  Jamie  required  to  be  reminded  of  his 
duty  to  the  folk  at  home.  Jamie  would 
have  laughed  at  the  notion.  Yet  that 
woman  in  London  must  have  been  waiting 
for  him  even  then.  Leeby,  who  was  about 
to  die,  and  Jamie,  who  was  to  forget  his 
mother,  came  back  to  the  kitchen  with  a 
happy  light  on  their  faces.  I  have  with  me 
still  the  look  of  love  they  gave  each  other 
before  Jamie  crossed  over  to  Jess. 

"  Ye'll  gang  anower,  noo,  mother,'* 
Leeby  said,  meaning  that  it  was  Jess's  bed- 
time. 

"  No  yet,  Leeby,"  Jess  answered,  "  I'll 
sit  up  till  the  readin's  ower." 

"  I    think    ye    should    gang,    mother," 


THE    LAST    NIGHT.  197 

Jamie  said,  "  an'  I'll  come  an'  sit  aside  ye 
after  ye're  i'  yer  bed." 

"  Ay,  Jamie,  I'll  no  hae  ye  to  sit  aside 
me  the  morn's  nicht,  an'  hap  [cover]  me 
wi'  the  claes." 

"  But  ye'll  gang  suner  to  yer  bed, 
mother." 

"  I  may  gang,  but  I  winna  sleep.  I'll 
aye  be  thinkin'  o'  ye  tossin'  on  the  sea.  I 
pray  for  ye  a  lang  time  ilka  nicht,  Jamie." 

"  Ay,  I  ken." 

"  An'  I  pictur  ye  ilka  hour  o'  the  day. 
Ye  never  gang  hame  through  thae  terrible 
streets  at  nicht  but  I'm  thinkin'  o'  ye." 

"  I  would  try  no  to  be  sae  sad,  mother," 
said  Leeby.  "  We've  haen  a  richt  fine 
time,  have  we  no?  " 

"  It's  been  an  awfu'  happy  time,"  said 
Jess.  "  We've  haen  a  pleasantness  in  oor 
lives  'at  comes  to  few.  I  ken  naebody 
'at's  haen  sae  muckle  happiness  one  wy  or 
another." 

"  It's  because  ye're  sae  guid,  mother," 
said  Jamie. 

"  Na,  Jamie,  am  no  guid  ava.  It's  be- 
>cause  my  fowk's  been  sae  guid,  you  an' 


198  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

Hendry  an'  Leeby  an'  Joey  when  he  was 
Hvin'.  I've  got  a  lot  mair  than  my 
deserts." 

''  We'll  juist  look  to  meetin'  next  year 
again,  mother.  To  think  o'  that  keeps  me 
up  a'  the  winter." 

"  Ay,  if  it's  the  Lord's  will,  Jamie,  but 
am  gey  dune  noo,  an'  Hendry's  fell  worn^ 
too." 

Jamie,  the  boy  that  he  was,  said,  "  Dinna 
speak  like  that,  mother,"  and  Jess  again 
put  her  hand  on  his  head. 

"  Fine  I  ken,  Jamie,"  she  said,  "  'at  all 
my  days  on  this  earth,  be  they  short  or 
lang,  I've  you  for  a  stafif  to  lean  on." 

Ah,  many  years  have  gone  since  then,  but 
if  Jamie  be  living  now  he  has  still  those 
words  to  swallow. 

By  and  by  Leeby  went  ben  for  the  Bible^ 
and  put  it  into  Hendry's  hands.  He  slowly 
turned  over  the  leaves  to  his  favorite  chap- 
ter, the  fourteenth  of  John's  Gospel.  Al- 
ways, on  eventful  occasions,  did  Hendry 
turn  to  the  fourteenth  of  John. 

"  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled;  ye  be- 
lieve in  God,  believe  also  in  Me. 


THE    LAST    NIGHT,  igg. 

"  In  My  Father's  house  are  many  man- 
sions;, if  it  were  not  so  I  would  have  told 
you.     I  go  to  prepare  a  place  for  you." 

As  Hendry  raised  his  voice  to  read  there 
was  a  great  stillness  in  the  kitchen.  I  do 
not  know  that  I  have  been  able  to  show  in 
the  most  imperfect  way  what  kind  of  man 
Hendry  was.  He  was  dense  in  many 
things,  and  the  cleverness  that  was  Jess's 
had  been  denied  to  him.  He  had  less 
book  learning  than  most  of  those  with 
whom  he  passed  his  days,  and  he  had  little 
skill  in  talk.  I  have  not  known  a  man 
more  easily  taken  in  by  persons  whose 
speech  had  two  faces.  But  a  more  simple, 
modest,  upright  man,  there  never  was  in 
Thrums,  and  I  shall  always  revere  his 
memory. 

"  And  if  I  go  and  prepare  a  place  for  you, 
I  will  come  again,  and  receive  you  unto  My- 
self; that  where  I  am,  there  ye  may  be 
also." 

The  voice  may  have  been  monotonous^ 
I  have  always  thought  that  Hendry's  read- 
ing of  the  Bible  was  the  most  solemn  and 
impressive  I  have  ever  heard.     He  exulted 


200  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS, 

inthe  fourteenth  of  John,  pouring  it  fortfi 
hke  one  whom  it  intoxicated  while  he  read. 
He  emphasized  every  other  word;  it  was  so 
real  and  grand  to  him. 

We  went  upon  our  knees  while  Hendry 
prayed,  all  but  Jess,  who  could  not.  Jamie 
buried  his  face  in  her  lap.  The  words  Hen- 
dry said  were  those  he  used  every  night. 
Some,  perhaps,  would  have  smiled  at  his 
prayer  to  God  that  we  be  not  puffed  up 
with  riches  nor  with  the  things  of  this 
world.  His  head  shook  with  emotion  while 
he  prayed,  and  he  brought  us  very  near  to 
the  throne  of  grace.  "  Do  thou,  O  our 
God,"  he  said,  in  conclusion,  "  spread  Thy 
guiding  hand  over  him  whom  in  Thy  great 
mercy  Thou  hast  brought  to  us  again,  and 
do  Thou  guard  him  through  the  perils 
which  come  unto  those  that  ,£:,o  down  to  the 
sea  in  ships.  Let  not  our  hearts  be 
troubled,  neither  let  them  be  afraid,  for  this 
is  not  our  abiding  home,  and  may  we  all 
meet  in  Thy  house,  where  there  are  many 
mansions,  and  where  there  will  be  no  last 
night.     Amen." 

It  was  a  silent  kitchen  after  that,  though 


JESS    LEFT    ALONE. 


the  lamp  burned  long  in  Jess's  window. 
By  its  meager  light  you  may  take  a  final 
glance  at  the  little  family;  you  will  never 
see  them  together  again. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

JESS  LEFT  ALONE. 

There  may  be  a  few  who  care  to  know 
how  the  lives  of  Jess  and  Hendry  ended. 
Leeby  died  in  the  back  end  of  the  year  I 
have  been  speaking  of,  and  as  I  was  snowed 
up  in  the  schoolhouse  at  the  time,  I  heard 
the  news  from  Gavin  Birse  too  late  to  at- 
tend her  funeral.  She  got  her  death  on  the 
commonty  one  day  of  sudden  rain,  v^'hen 
she  had  run  out  to  bring  in  her  washing, 
for  the  terrible  cold  she  woke  with  next 
morning  carried  her  off  very  quickly. 
Leeby  did  not  blame  Jamie  for  not  coming 
to  her,  nor  did  I,  for  I  knew  that,  even  in 
the  presence  of  death,  the  poor  must  drag 
their  chains.     He  never  got  Hendry's  let- 


202  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

ter  with  the  news,  and  we  know  now  that  he 
Avas  already  in  the  hands  of  her  who  played 
the  devil  with  his  life.  Before  the  spring 
came  he  had  been  lost  to  Jess. 

"  Them  'at  has  got  sae  mony  blessin's 
mair  than  the  generality,"  Hendry  said  to 
me  one  day,  when  Craigiebuckle  had  given 
me  a  lift  into  Thrums,  "  has  nae  shame  if 
they  would  pray  aye  for  mair.  The  Lord 
has  gien  this  hoose  sae  muckle,  'at  to  pray 
for  mair  looks  like  no  bein'  thankfu'  for 
Avhat  we've  got.  Ay,  but  I  canna  help 
prayin'  to  Him  'at  in  His  great  mercy  He'll 
tak  Jess  afore  me.  Noo  'at  Leeby's  gone, 
an'  Jamie  never  lets  us  hear  frae  him,  I 
canna  gulp  doon  the  thocht  o'  Jess  bein' 
left  alane." 

This  was  a  prayer  that  Hendry  may  be 
pardoned  for  having  so  often  in  his  heart, 
though  God  did  not  think  fit  to  grant  it. 
In  Thrums,  when  a  weaver  died,  his 
womenfolk  had  to  take  his  seat  at  the  loom, 
and  those  who,  by  reason  of  infirmities, 
could  not  do  so,  went  to  a  place,  the  name 
of  which,  I  thank  God,  I  am  not  compelled 
to  write  in  this  chapter.     I  could  not,  even 


JESS    LEFT    ALONE.  ZOJ 

at  this  day,  have  told  any  episodes  in  the 
life  of  Jess  had  it  ended  in  the  poor- 
house. 

Hendry  would  probably  have  recovered 
from  the  fever  had  not  this  terrible  dread 
darkened  his  intellect  when  he  was  still 
prostrate.  He  was  lying  in  the  kitchen 
when  I  saw  him  last  in  life,  and  his  parting 
words  must  be  sadder  to  the  reader  than 
they  were  to  me. 

"  Ay,  richt  ye  are,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
that  had  become  a  child's;  "  I  hae  muckle, 
muckle,  to  be  thankfu'  for,  an'  no  the  least 
is  'at  baith  me  an'  Jess  has  aye  belonged  to 
a  bural  society.  We  hae  nae  cause  to  be 
anxious  aboot  a'thing  bein'  dune  respect- 
able aince  we're  gone.  It  was  Jess  'at 
insisted  on  oor  joinin':  a'  the  wisest 
things  I  ever  did  I  was  put  up  to  by 
her." 

I  parted  from  Hendry,  cheered  by  the 
doctor's  report,  but  the  old  weaver  died  a 
few  days  afterward.  His  end  was  mourn- 
ful, yet  I  can  recall  it  now  as  the  not  un- 
Avorthy  close  of  a  good  man's  life.  One 
night  poor  worn  Jess  had  been  helped  ben 


204  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

into  the  room,  Tibbie  Birse  having  under- 
taken to  sit  up  with  Hendry.  Jess  slept  for 
the  first  time  for  many  days,  and  as  the 
night  was  dying  Tibbie  fell  asleep  too. 
Hendry  had  been  better  than  usual,  lying 
quietly,  Tibbie  said,  and  the  fever  was  gone. 
About  three  o'clock  Tibbie  woke  and  rose 
to  mend  the  fire.  Then  she  saw  that  Hen- 
dry was  not  in  his  bed. 

Tibbie  went  ben  the  house  in  her  stock- 
ing soles,  but  Jess  heard  her. 

"What  is't,  Tibbie?"  she  asked  anx- 
iously. 

"  Ou,  it's  no  naething,"  Tibbie  said,, 
"  he's  lyin'  rale  quiet." 

Then  she  went  up  to  the  attic.  Hendry 
was  not  in  the  house. 

She  opened  the  door  gently  and  stole 
out.  It  was  not  snowing,  but  there  had 
been  a  heavy  fall  two  days  before,  and  the 
night  was  windy.  A  tearing  gale  ha  I 
blown  the  upper  part  of  the  brae  clear,  and 
from  T'nowhead  fields  the  snow  was  rising 
like  smoke.  Tibbie  ran  to  the  farm  and 
w-oke  up  T'nowhead. 

For   an   hour   they   looked   in   vain   for 


JESS    LEFT    ALONE.  20$ 

Hendry.  At  last  someone  asked  who  was 
working  in  Elshioner's  shop  all  night. 
This  was  the  long  earthen-floored  room  in 
which  Hendry's  loom  stood  with  three 
others. 

"  It  '11  be  Sanders  Whamond  likely," 
T'nowhead  said,  and  the  other  men 
nodded. 

But  it  happened  that  T'nowhead's  Bell, 
who  had  flung  on  a  wrapper,  and  hastened 
across  to  sit  with  Jess,  heard  of  the  light  in 
Elshioner's  shop. 

"It's  Hendry!"  she  cried,  and  then 
everyone  moved  toward  the  workshop. 

The  light  at  the  diminutive,  yarn-cov- 
ered window  was  pale  and  dim,  but  Bell, 
who  was  at  the  house  first,  could  make  the 
most  of  a  cruizey's  glimmer. 

"  It's  him,"  she  said,  and  then,  with  swel- 
ling throat,  she  ran  back  to  Jess. 

The  door  of  the  workshop  was  wide 
open,  held  against  the  wall  by  the  wind. 
T'nowhead  and  the  others  went  in.  The 
cruizey  stood  on  the  little  window.  Hen- 
dry's back  was  to  the  door,  and  he  was  lean- 
ing forward  on  the  silent  loom.     He  had 


2o6  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

been  dead  for  some  time,  but  his  fellow- 
workers  saw  that  he  must  have  weaved  for 
nearly  an  hour. 

So  it  came  about  that,  for  the  last  few 
months  of  her  pilgrimage,  Jess  was  left 
alone.  Yet  I  may  not  say  that  she  was 
alone.  Jamie,  who  should  have  been  with 
her,  was  undergoing  his  own  ordeal  far 
away;  where,  we  did  not  now  even  know. 
But  though  the  poorhouse  stands  in 
Thrums,  where  all  may  see  it,  the  neighbors 
did  not  think  only  of  themselves. 

Than  Tammas  Haggart  there  can  scarce- 
ly have  been  a  poorer  man,  but  Tammas 
was  the  first  to  come  forward  with  ofifer  of 
help.  To  the  day  of  Jess's  death  he  did 
not  once  fail  to  carry  her  water  to  her  in 
the  morning,  and  the  luxuriously  living 
men  of  Thrums  in  those  present  days  of 
pumps  at  every  corner  can  hardly  realize 
what  that  meant.  Often  there  were  lines 
of  people  at  the  well  by  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  each  had  to  wait  his  turn. 
Tammas  filled  his  own  pitcher  and  pan,  and 
then  had  to  take  his  place  at  the  end  of  the 
line  with  Jess''*  pitcher  and  pan,  to  wait  his 


JESS    LEFT    ALONE.  207 

turn  again.  His  own  house  was  in  the 
Tenements,  far  from  the  brae  in  winter 
time,  but  he  ahvays  said  to  Jess  it  was 
""  naething  ava." 

Every  Saturday  old  Robbie  Angus  sent 
a  bag  of  sticks  and  shavings  from  the  saw- 
mill by  his  little  son  Rob,  who  was  after- 
ward to  become  a  man  for  speaking  about 
at  nights.  Of  all  the  friends  that  Jess  and 
Hendry  had,  T'nowhead  was  the  ablest  to 
help,  and  the  sweetest  memory  I  have  of 
the  farmer  and  his  wife  is  the  delicate  way 
they  ofifered  it.  You  who  read  will  see 
Jess  wince  at  the  offer  of  charity.  But  the 
poor  have  fine  feelings  beneath  the  grime, 
as  you  will  discover  if  you  care  to  look  for 
them,  and  when  Jess  said  she  would  bake 
if  anyone  would  buy,  you  would  wonder 
to  hear  how  many  kindly  folk  came  to  her 
door  for  scones. 

She  had  the  house  to  herself  at  nights, 
but  Tibbie  Birse  was  with  her  early  in  the 
morning,  and  other  neighbors  dropped  in. 
Not  for  long  did  she  have  to  wait  the  sum- 
mons to  the  better  home. 

"  Na,"  she  said  to  the  minister,  who  has 


2o8  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

told  me  that  he  was  a  better  man  from 
knowing  her,  "  my  thochts  is  no  nane  set 
on  the  vanities  o'  the  world  noo.  I  kenna 
hoo  I  could  ever  hae  haen  sic  an  ambeetion 
to  hae  thae  stuff-bottomed  chairs." 

I  have  tried  to  keep  away  from  Jamie, 
whom  the  neighbors  sometimes  upbraided 
in  her  presence.  It  is  of  him  you  who  read 
would  lik'i  to  hear,  and  I  cannot  pretend 
that  Jess  did  not  sit  at  her  window  looking 
for  him. 

"  Even  when  she  was  bakin',''  Tibbie 
told  me,  "  she  aye  had  an  eye  on  the  brae. 
If  Jamie  had  come  at  ony  time  when  it  was 
licht  she  would  hae  seen  'im  as  sune  as  he 
turned  the  corner." 

"  If  he  ever  comes  back,  the  sacket  [ras- 
cal]," T'nowhead  said  to  Jess,  "  we'll  show 
'im  the  door  gey  quick." 

Jess  just  looked,  and  all  the  women  knew 
how  quickly  she  would  take  Jamie  to  her 
arms. 

We  did  not  know  of  the  London  woman 
then,  and  Jess  never  knew  of  her.  Jamie's 
mother  never  allowed  that  he  had  become 
anything  but  the  loving  laddie  of  his  youth. 


JESS    LEFT    ALONE.  209 

"  I  ken  'im  ower  weel,"  she  always  said, 
"  my  ain  Jamie." 

Toward  the  end  she  was  sure  he  was 
dead.  I  do  not  know  when  she  first  made 
tip  her  mind  to  this,  nor  whether  it  was  not 
merely  a  phrase  for  those  who  "wanted  to 
<iiscuss  him  with  her.  I  know  that  she  still 
sat  at  the  window  looking  at  the  elbow  of 
the  brae. 

The  minister  was  with  her  when  she  died. 
She  was  in  her  chair,  and  he  asked  her,  as 
was  his  custom,  if  there  was  any  particular 
chapter  which  she  would  like  him  to  read. 
Since  her  husband's  death  she  had  always 
asked  for  the  fourteenth  of  John,  "  Hen- 
dry's chapter,"  as  it  is  still  called  among  a 
very  few  old  people  in  Thrums.  This  time 
she  asked  him  to  read  the  sixteenth  chapter 
of  Genesis. 

"  When  I  came  to  the  thirtieth  verse," 
the  minister  told  me,  "  '  And  she  called  the 
name  of  the  Lord  that  spake  unto  her, 
Thou  God  seest  me,'  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  two  hands,  and  said,  '  Joey's  text, 
Joev's  text.  Oh,  but  I  grudged  ye  sair, 
Joey.'  " 


2IO  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  I  shut  the  book,"  the  minister  said, 
"  when  I  came  to  the  end  of  the  chapter, 
and  then  I  saw  that  she  was  dead.  It  is  my 
belief  that  her  heart  broke  one-and-twenty 
years  ago." 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

Jamie's  home-coming. 

On  a  summer  day,  w^hen  the  sun  was  in 
the  weavers'  workshops,  and  the  bairns 
hopped  solemnly  at  the  game  of  palaulays, 
or  gayly  shook  their  bottles  of  suggarelly 
water  into  a  froth,  Jamie  came  back.  The 
first  man  to  see  him  was  Hookey  Crewe, 
the  post. 

"  When  he  came  frae  London,"  Hookey 
said  afterward  at  T'nowhead's  pig-sty, 
"  Jamie  used  to  wait  for  me  at  Zoar,  i'  the 
north  end  o'  Tilliedrum.  He  carried  his 
box  ower  the  market  muir,  an'  sat  on't  at 
Zoar,  waitin'  for  me  to  catch  'im  up.  Ay, 
the  day  before  yesterday  me  an'  the  powny 
was   clatterin'   bv   Zoar,   wheji   there   was 


JAMIE  S   HOME-COMING.  211 

Jamie  standin'  in  his  identical  place.  He 
hadna  nae  box  to  sit  upon,  an'  he  was  far 
frae  bein'  weel  in  order,  but  I  kent  'im  at 
aince,  an'  I  saw  'at  he  was  waitin'  for  me. 
So  I  drew  up,  an'  waved  my  hand  to  'im." 

"  I  would  hae  drove  straucht  by  'im," 
said  T'nowhead;  "  them  'at  leaves  their  auld 
mother  to  want  doesna  deserve  a  lift." 

"Ay,  ye  say  that  sittin'  there,"  Hookey 
said;  "  but,  lads,  I  saw  his  face,  an'  as  sure 
as  death  it  was  sic  an'  awfu'  meeserable  face 
'at  1  couldna  but  pu'  the  powny  up.  Weel, 
he  stood  for  the  space  o'  a  meenute  lookin' 
straucht  at  me,  as  if  he  would  like  to  come 
forrit  but  dauredna,  an'  syne  he  turned  an' 
strided  awa  ower  the  muir  like  a  huntit 
thing.  I  sat  still  i'  the  cart,  an  when  he 
was  far  awa  he  stoppit  an'  lookit  again,  but 
a'  my  cryin'  wouldna  bring  him  a  step  back, 
an'  i'  the  end  I  drove  on.  I've  thocht  since 
syne  'at  he  didna  ken  whether  his  fowk  was 
livin'  or  deid,  an'  was  fleid  to  speir." 

"  He  didna  ken,"  said  T'nowhead,  "  but 
the  faut  was  his  ain.  It's  ower  late  to  be 
taen  up  aboot  Jess  noo." 

"  Ay,    ay,    T'nowhead,"    said    Hookey, 


212  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  it's  aisy  to  you  to  speak  like  that.  Ye 
didna  see  his  face." 

It  was  beheved  that  Jamie  walked  from 
Tilliedrum,  though  no  one  is  known  to 
have  met  him  on  the  road.  Some  two 
hours  after  the  post  left  him  he  was  seen  by 
old  Rob  Angus  at  the  sawmill. 

"  I  was  sawin'  awa  wi'  a'  my  micht,"  Rob 
said,  "  an'  little  Rob  was  haudin'  the 
booards,  for  they  were  silly  but  things, 
when  something  made  me  look  at  the  win- 
dow. It  couldna  hae  been  a  tap  on't,  for 
the  birds  has  used  me  to  that,  an'  it  would 
hardly  be  a  shadow,  for  little  Rob  didna 
look  up.  Whatever  it  was  I  stoppit  i'  the 
middle  o'  a  booard,  an'  lookit  up,  an'  there 
I  saw  Jamie  McQumpha.  He  joukit  back 
when  our  een  met,  but  I  saw  him  weel;  ay, 
it's  a  queer  thing  to  say,  but  he  had  the 
face  o'  a  man  'at  had  come  straucht  frae 
hell. 

"  I  stood  starin'  at  the  window,"  Angus 
continued,  "  after  he'd  gone,  an'  Robbie 
cried  oot  to  ken  what  was  the  maiter  wi' 
me.  Ay,  that  brocht  me  back  to  mysel',  an' 
I  hurried  oot  to  look  for  Jamie,  but  he 


JAMIE  S    HOME-COMING.  213 

wasna  to  be  seen.  That  face  gae  me  a 
turn." 

From  the  sawmill  to  the  house  at  the  top 
of  the  brae,  some  may  remember,  the  road 
is  up  the  commonty.  I  do  not  think  any- 
one saw  Jamie  on  the  commonty,  though 
there  were  those  to  say  they  met  him. 

"  He  gae  me  sic  a  look,"  a  woman  said, 
"  at  I  was  fleid  an'  ran  hame,"  but  she  did 
not  tell  the  story  until  Jamie's  home-com- 
ing had  become  a  legend. 

There  were  many  women  hanging  out 
their  washing  on  the  commonty  that  day, 
and  none  of  them  saw  him.  I  think  Jamie 
must  have  approached  his  old  home  by  the 
fields,  and  probably  he  held  back  until 
gloaming. 

The  young  woman  who  was  now  mistress 
of  the  house  at  the  top  of  the  brae  both  saw 
and  spoke  with  Jamie. 

"  Twa  or  three  times,"  she  said,  "  I  had 
.seen  a  man  walk  quick  up  the  brae  an'  by 
the  door.  It  was  gettin'  dark,  but  I 
noticed  'at  he  was  short  an'  thin,  an'  I 
would  hae  said  he  wasna  nane  weel  if  it 
hadna  been  'at  he  gaed  by  at  sic  a  steek. 


2  14  ^    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

He  didna  look  our  way — at  least  no  when 
he  was  close  up,  an'  I  set  'im  doon  for  some 
ga'en-aboot  body.  Na,  I  saw  naething^ 
aboot  'im  to  be  fleid  at. 

"  The  aucht  o'clock  bell  was  ringin'  when 
I  saw  'im  to  speak  to.  My  twa-year-auld 
bairn  was  standin'  aboot  the  door,  an'  I  was 
makkin'  some  porridge  for  my  man's  sup- 
per when  I  heard  the  bairny  skirlin'.  She 
came  runnin'  in  to  the  hoose  an'  hung  i'  my 
wrapper,  an'  she  was  hingin'  there,  when  I 
gaed  to  the  door  to  see  what  was  wrang, 

"  It  was  the  man  I'd  seen  passin'  the 
hoose.  He  was  standin'  at  the  gate,  which, 
as  a'body  kens,  is  but  sax  steps  frae  the 
hoose,  an'  I  wondered  at  'im  neither  run- 
nin' awa  nor  comin'  forrit.  I  speired  at 
'im  what  he  meant  by  terrifyin'  a  bairn,  but 
he  didna  say  naething.  He  juist  stood.  It 
was  ower  dark  to  see  his  face  richt,  an'  I 
wasna  nane  taen  aback  yet,  no  till  he  spoke. 
Oh,  but  he  had  a  fearsome  word  when  he 
did  speak.  It  was  a  kind  o'  like  a  man 
hoarse  wi'  a  cauld,  an'  yet  no  that  either. 

"  '  Wha  bides  i'  this  hoose?  '  he  said,  ay 
standin'  there. 


JAMIE  S    HOME-COMING.  215 

"  '  It's  Davit  Patullo's  hoose,'  I  said,  '  an' 
am  the  wife.' 

"  '  Whaur's  Hendry  McQumpha?  '  he 
speired. 

"  '  He's  deid;  I  said. 

"  He  stood  still  for  a  fell  while. 
An'  his  wife,  Jess?  '  he  said. 

"  '  She's  deid,  too,'  I  said. 

"  I  thocht  he  gae  a  groan,  but  it  may  hae 
been  the  gate. 

'■ '  There  was  a  dochter,  Leeby?  '  he  said. 

"  *  Ay,'  I  said,  '  she  was  taen  first.' 

"  I  saw  'im  put  up  his  hands  to  his  face, 
an'  he  cried  oot,  '  Leeby  too! '  an'  syne  he 
kind  o'  fell  agin  the  dyke.  I  never  kent 
'im  nor  nane  o'  his  fowk,  but  I  had  heard 
aboot  them,  an'  I  saw  'at  it  would  be  the 
son  frae  London.  It  wasna  for  me  to 
judge  'im,  an'  I  said  to  'im  would  he  no 
come  in  by  an'  tak  a  rest.  I  was  nearer  'im 
by  that  time,  an'  it's  an  awfu'  haver  to  say 
'at  he  had  a  face  to  frichten  fowk.  It  was  a 
rale  guid  face,  but  no  ava  what  a  body 
would  like  to  see  on  a  young  man.  I  felt 
mair  like  greetin'  mysel'  when  I  saw  his 
face  than  drawin'  awa  frae  'im. 


2l6  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

"  But  he  wouldna  come  in.  *  Rest,'  he 
said,  Hke  ane  speakin'  to  'imsel',  '  na,  there's 
nae  mair  rest  for  me.'  I  didna  well  ken 
what  mair  to  say  to  'im,  for  he  aye  stood  on, 
an'  I  wasna  even  sure  'at  he  saw  me.  He 
raised  his  heid  when  he  heard  me  tellin'  the 
bairn  no  to  tear  my  wrapper. 

"  '  Dinna  set  yer  heart  ower  muckle  on 
that  bairn,'  he  cried  oot,  sharp  like.  '  I 
was  aince  like  her,  an'  I  used  to  hang  aboot 
my  mother,  too,  in  that  very  roady.  Ay, 
I  thocht  I  was  fond  o'  her,  an'  she  thocht 
it  too.  Tak  a  care,  wuman,  'at  that  bairn 
doesna  grow  up  to  murder  ye.' 

"  He  gae  a  lauch  when  he  saw  me  tak 
baud  o'  the  bairn,  an'  syne  a'  at  aince  he 
gaed  awa  quick.  But  he  wasna  far  doon 
the  brae  when  he  turned  an'  came  back. 

"  '  Ye'll  mebbe  tell  me,"  he  said,  richt 
low,  '  if  ye  hae  the  furniture  'at  used  to  be 
my  mother's?  ' 

"  '  Na,'  I  said,  '  it  was  roupit,  an'  I 
kenna  whaur  the  things  gaed,  for  me  an' 
my  man  comes  frae  Tilliedrum.' 

"  '  Ye  wouldna  hae  heard,'  he  said, 
'  wha  got  the  muckle  airmchair   'at  used 


Jamie's  home-coming.  217- 

to  sit  i'  the  kitchen  i'  the  window  'at  looks 
ower  the  brae?  ' 

"  '  I  couldna  be  sure,'  I  said,  '  but  there 
was  an  airmchair  at  gaed  to  Tibbie  Birse. 
If  it  was  the  ane  ye  mean,  it  a'  gaed  to 
bits,  an'  I  think  they  burned  it.  It  was  gey 
dune.' 

"  '  Ay,'  he  said,  '  it  was  gey  dune.' 

■' '  There  was  the  chairs  ben  i'  the  room/ 
he  said,  after  a  while. 

"  I  said  I  thocht  Sanders  Elshioner 
had  got  them  at  a  bargain  because  twa  o' 
them  was  mended  wi'  glue,  an'  gey  silly. 

"  '  Ay,  that's  them,'  he  said,  '  they  were 
richt  neat  mended.  It  was  my  mother  'at 
glued  them.  I  mind  c '  her  makkin'  the 
glue,  an'  warnin'  me  an'  my  father  no  to 
sit  on  them.  There  was  the  clock  too,  an' 
the  stool  'at  my  mother  got  oot  an'  into  her 
bed  wi',  an'  the  basket  'at  Leeby  carried 
when  she  gaed  the  errands.  The  straw  was 
aff  the  handle,  an'  my  father  mended  it  wi' 
strings.' 

"  '  I  dinna  ken,'  I  said,  '  whaur  nane  o* 
thae  gaed;  but  did  yer  mother  hae  a  staff? ' 

"'A  little  stafif,'  he  said;  'it  was  near 


2l8  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

black  \vi'  age.  She  couldna  gang  frae  the 
bed  to  her  chair  withoot  it.  It  was  broad- 
ened oot  at  the  foot  wi'  her  leanin'  on't  sae 
muckle.' 

I've  heard  tell,'  I  said,  '  'at  the  do- 
minie up  i'  Glen  Quharity  took  awa  the 
staff.' 

"  He  didna  speir  for  nae  other  thing. 
He  had  the  gate  in  his  hand,  but  I  dinna 
think  he  kent  'at  he  was  swingin't  back  an' 
forrit.     At  last  he  let  it  go. 

That's  a','  he  said,  '  I  maun  awa. 
Good-nicht,  an'  thank  ye  kindly.' 

"  I  watched  'im  till  he  gaed  oot  o'  sicht. 
He  gaed  doon  the  brae." 

We  learned  afterward  from  the  grave- 
digger  that  someone  spent  great  part  of 
that  night  in  the  graveyard,  and  we  believe 
it  to  have  been  Jamie.  He  walked  up  the 
glen  to  the  sctioolhouse  next  forenoon,  and 
I  went  out  to  meet  him  when  I  saw  him 
coming  down  the  path. 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  '"  it's  me  come  back." 

I  wanted  to  take  him  into  the  house  and 
speak  with  him  of  his  mother,  but  he  would 
not  cross  the  threshold. 


JAMIE  S    HOME-COMING.  219 

"  I  came  oot,"  he  said,  "  to  see  if  ye 
would  gie  me  her  staff — no  'at  I  deserve  't." 

I  brought  out  the  staff  and  handed  it 
to  him,  thinking  that  he  and  I  would  soon 
meet  again.  As  he  took  it  I  saw  that  his 
eyes  were  sunk  back  into  his  head.  Two 
great  tears  hung  on  his  eyelids,  and  his 
mouth  closed  in  agony.  He  stared  at  me 
till  the  tears  fell  upon  his  cheeks,  and  then 
he  went  away. 

That  evening  he  was  seen  by  many 
persons  crossing  the  square.  He  went  up 
the  brae  to  his  old  home,  and  asked  leave 
to  go  through  the  house  for  the  last  time. 
First  he  climbed  up  into  the  attic,  and 
stood  looking  in,  his  feet  still  on  the  stair. 
Then  he  came  down  and  stood  at  the  door 
of  the  room,  but  he  went  into  the  kitchen. 

"  I'll  ask  one  favor  o'  ye,"  he  said  to  the 
woman:  "  I  would  like  ye  to  leave  me  here 
alane  for  juist  a  little  while." 

"  I  gaed  oot,"  the  woman  said,  "  meanin' 
to  leave  'im  to  'imsel',  but  my  bairn 
wouldna  come,  an'  he  said,  '  Never  mind 
her,'  so  I  left  her  wi'  'im,  an'  closed  the 
door.     He  was  in  a  lang  time,  but  I  never 


220  A    WINDOW    IN    THRUMS. 

kent  what  he  did,  for  the  bairn  juist  aye 
greets  when  I  speir  at  her. 

"  I  watched  'im  frae  the  corner  window 
gang  doon  the  brae  till  he  came  to  the  cor- 
ner. I  thocht  he  turned  round  there  an* 
stood  lookin'  at  the  hoose.  He  would  se^ 
me  better  than  I  saw  him,  for  my  lamp  was 
i'  the  window,  whaur  I've  heard  tell  his 
mother  keepit  her  cruizey.  When  my  man 
came  in  I  speired  at  'im  if  he'd  seen  ony- 
body  standin'  at  the  corner  o'  the  brae,  an* 
he  said  he  thocht  he'd  seen  somebody  wi' 
a  little  staff  in  his  hand.  Davit  gaed  doon 
to  see  if  he  was  aye  there  after  supper  time, 
but  he  was  gone." 

Jamie  was  never  again  seen  in  Thrums. 


THE  END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


3  1 195t  i 


'auC  i  8  1980 


rm  L9-25m-8, '46(9852)444 


NIVi: 


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